


Both Sides, Now

by trustwrites



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Benny/Dean in the past, M/M, Panic Attacks, Professor Verse, Sexuality Issues, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smart Dean Winchester, some internalized homophobia?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2017-12-24 09:29:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/938339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustwrites/pseuds/trustwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester has a Master's that barely matters to him and a reputation as a brilliant writer to live up to. He finds himself gravitating towards Castiel James, a composed but unconventional professor with a tendency to baffle him. Dean tries to find purchase on a slippery slope of loyalty, crisis, guilt, identity, potential, and worth. And in the end, everything is about wanting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Little Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean tries to make a comeback and makes a new friend in the meantime.

* * *

 

 

 

“I’m going to tell you a secret.

Everything is about wanting.

Everything.

Things happen because of people wanting.

Watch closely, and you’ll see what I mean.”

David Mitchell

 

* * *

 

The laptop closes with a sullen snikt as he compromises with himself. He knows he isn’t a great writer. He’s talented, but he’s not great – he makes a distinction between the two. He still has a knack for the one-liner; he can turn an interesting phrase now and then. But he doesn’t know how to make his prose smooth together anymore. He never practices. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He wants coffee.

 

He used to be so good at this.

 

Dean sighs, rubbing a hand across his eyes. He is stoutly determined to not think about how the ever-loving fuck he got to this point in his life. He slides his laptop into its lucky case, covered in completely unprofessional patches, the occasional safety pin, and a worn Led Zeppelin logo. Since he’s just sitting there, not writing, why shouldn’t he be sitting there not writing with a beer in front of the TV? Life is all about the little things you allow yourself, isn’t it?

 

One beer down and halfway through what was proving to be a very interesting episode of Ninja Warrior, he hears the telltale buzz. He flips open his phone to read his text and finds three he’d been ignoring. Two were from the assistant dance instructor who sometimes accidentally brushed against him in the office – and then not so accidentally brushed against him in her apartment last weekend. Dean sent her a smiley face.

 

The other text is from Sam. He feels a brief, hot stab of guilt. Predictably, the moose was not-so-subtly checking up on him. While in a meeting, no less. The text echoes the sentiments of the emails they had exchanged earlier that week.

 

_‘If you want to get published again, you only need to practice every day. Your skills will speak for themselves if you give them the chance.’_

 

Easy for Sammy to say, already lawyer and a partner besides, all at the tender age of twenty-six. Dean, pushing thirty, doesn’t have the optimism of his genius baby brother, but he’s been grudgingly taking his advice. You know, when he’s not having beer breaks. For the past four nights, he’s gotten off work, opened his laptop, and churned out garbage. And that’s what he should be doing now.

 

There’s just too much pressure for a guy like Dean. He never considered himself intelligent, much less artistic, until one nosy little creative writing professor had to get all tripped up over one of his goddamn short stories and then there were _expectations_ and _congratulations_ and _futures_ and the sick loving puppy look on Sammy’s face, and what was he supposed to do?

 

His best, naturally.

 

But as fucking depressing as today’s “work” has turned out to be, Dean flips off the TV. He picks up his laptop and his keys and his wallet and his dignity and he gets the fuck up and walks out the door. Because damn it, he wants to have an elaborate coffee drink and he wants to flirt with a barista and he wants to write something that doesn’t make him want to curl up and die and he also maybe definitely wants Sammy to be proud of him.

 

“Life is about the little things you allow yourself,” he assures his doorman as he briskly passes. The doorman gives a thoughtful nod.

 

Dean lived in a nice building, because he could afford to and it was time. He spent his entire childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood living in semi-squalor, bouncing from place to place, taking care of his grimy, brilliant kid brother while his parents… well, fuck him if he was going to live like that anymore. Once Sammy got situated in his college and certain future, Dean finally allowed himself a simple indulgence, one he had cherished all his life. A nice place to come home to, and to, you know, bring a respectable lady around. Clean walls and floors, carpets, a refrigerator that came up past his shoulders and always worked.

 

There was probably a Starbucks just around the corner from his door because there are Starbucks’ fucking _everywhere_ , but Dean is uninterested in a place like that. It’s all too antiseptic, perfectly calming and reassuring and bland. It can’t be good for his muse, deceitful whore though it is.

 

 _‘Should name my muse,’_ he thinks. After all these years of bullshit. Something Biblical, apocryphal, horrible. He deserves a stupid name.

 

He hails a cab. The driver is young and disdainful, and Dean hates Seattle for the four hundredth time that week.

 

“Where can I take you?” the kid mumbles from behind his decorative glasses, and Dean is struck with sudden irrepressible inspiration.

 

“Where do you go for coffee?” Dean asks. This kid must be into the hippest, most unusual, artsy fucking places in the city. He could feel guilty for profiling later.

 

“Doesn’t seem like your scene,” Hipsterface warns, but he dutifully pulls away from the curb. “But sometimes I see guys like you in there.”

 

Against his better judgment, Dean can’t help but voice it. “Guys like me?”

 

“Architects, librarians, teachers, whatever,” the kid huffs. “You know what I mean.”

 

And Dean does know, of course. The kid nailed it; Dean was certainly a teacher at the moment. He didn’t think he looked so much the part, though. Dean feels distantly affronted. Little dick.

 

This has never been the plan, though it’s generous to suggest that Dean really had much of one. In his younger days, Dean had been the typical enthusiastically talented sports star. While shouldering the burdens of his home life, he had luckily still managed to earn a tidy profit from sports scholarships in high school. Not knowing much about universities or higher education, Dean chose a major arbitrarily. His younger self didn’t think much of academia and certainly didn’t bother to think of what he would do when the sport had gone out of him. Luckily enough, creative writing suited Dean. He was a pretty funny guy and many teachers assured him he had a way with words and timing.

 

When he tore his ACL, he came in from the field and used the experience to write an award winning short story. And then another. He was published three times before he knew what to make of it all.

 

His pseudo-fame got him some subtle offers at a graduate level, and he rode his charisma and unexpected creative popularity through a master’s program. The academic interest had curbed as he completed it, and before he knew what had really become of him, he was left, museless and educated. Teaching seemed logical, and he hoped it wouldn’t bore him to tears while he rallied and examined his options.

 

Unfortunately and rather obviously, it did bore him, and his options hid like frightened partridge. Hence the casual mention in his weekly emails with Sammy, his own personal cheerleading squad.

 

“We’re here,” the cabbie informed him. When did they even stop? Shaking his head to bring himself back to the here and now, Dean paid and got out of the cab.

 

“The Daily Grind” immediately strikes Dean as a place that takes itself a little too seriously, but maybe in a good way. The walls look like they’ve been covered with leftover paint from countless projects, but done carefully, with some real art and forethought. Everything in the place looks like it was once been something else. Bike frames, old doors, and retro appliances had become chairs, tables, and works of art. Essentially it’s a pile of crap with some glitter thrown on it. The coffee is so damn ethically sourced that it’s nauseating and the girls behind the counter were edgy but approachable. The establishment smacks of self-righteousness and creative intent.

 

He briefly considers hitting up his boxing partner instead, knocking someone around a bit. Less awkward. He dismisses the thought.

 

It seems fairly packed but then again Dean has no idea what it normally looks like. People stay quiet, studying, writing, or having hushed, tense conversations he isn’t at all interested in. One of the baristas is chatting animatedly with some broad shoulders in a trench coat, so he can’t get his flirt on right out the gate.

 

He orders the drink du jour because of its hilarious name and collects himself at a decently sized table.

 

He opens his laptop and wills it all to be worth it.

 

…fuck.

 

Dean can’t help but wonder what the fuck happened to him. He used to be full of clever, witty sentences and grand notions. Now there’s zilch, nada, nothing. What wouldn’t he do for a good prompt, an inner drive, a fucking semblance of artistic presence?

 

Dean doesn’t want just any story. He often bluffs with others, talking about paychecks and the status quo. But if he’s looking his reflection right in its arrogant green eye he knows that it isn’t about doing enough. He _does_ want this to be good. _He_ wants to be good. Not just for Sammy, not just for a steady check. He wants to write something worth saying. He wants a story so good that it seduces, sliding across lips and tripping over tongues, murmured and repeated like the name of a lover, adored and remembered. But no. He’s just sitting here, stuttering like a schoolboy with a…a flower. And a box of chocolates. Or… something. Dean groans and leans back in his chair.

 

Scratch that, he groans _loudly_ because out of fucking nowhere someone coughs over what might have been a chuckle and says, “Having a bad moment, are we?”

 

Dean starts. The comment was casual and light but the voice was anything but. It sounded like a cougar seducing Tom Waits on a pile of gravel. He looks up and all he can muster is a cautious, _“Whuh?”_ because big navy eyes and slight smirk and Dean’s internal language processor malfunctioned.

 

The previously-glossed-over man in the trench stands at the self-service table to Dean’s immediate right. Dean feels a vaguely familiar and highly disconcerting twinge in his gut. Seemingly unoffended with Dean’s non-committal response, the man asks, “Your name doesn’t happen to be Dean, does it?”

 

Dean’s heart quickens ever so slightly. He hopes to God this guy isn’t psychic because he honestly didn’t mean to think anything about gravel cougars. “How did you know that?” he blinks in what was surely an intelligent and becoming fashion.

 

“Because the charming brunette barista has said your name about thirty times.” Striking Features looks over his shoulder. “Her charm seems to be giving way to annoyance. I’d hurry over there if I were you,” he adds, bringing his coffee to his lips to test it. Dean is transfixed, and then furious at himself for it. “She mentioned kickboxing in her spare time.”

 

Dean feels his neck heat up and garbles a quick thanks as he hurries to relieve the girl of his drink. She is annoyed, though she softens considerably when he flashes his most winning smile and a little eye contact up through his eyelashes. By the time he finishes apologizing, she’s happily chatting about how she comes up with the clever latte names and shifting her best come-hither gaze between him and something to Dean’s left. He turns and sees Sexy Trenchcoat still at work making a perfect cup of coffee. Talk about anal retentive. Dean really wishes he would move along.

 

Dean hates situations like this. He likes being in control of things socially, and he recognizes it as a dick trait. He still likes it. He knows he’s a good looking guy – the barista wouldn’t fake that interest – and he can get away with a lot with his big green eyes and long eyelashes, but he doesn’t like to play the fool. And now he had to go sit down next to this guy who’d already given him a little sass. Dean feels matching little thrills of distress and anticipation. It doesn’t sit well.

 

He retakes his seat and sips his coffee drink – the “Grounds for Divorce”, sugary but otherwise awesome - and pretends to be concentrating very hard on his Microsoft Word page. So far he’d typed, _‘Words. Woooooooords. Word to your mother.’_ Just stellar.

 

“What are you working on, that has got you so frustrated?” Dean looks over at the other man, who has taken up an attractive lean against the counter, gazing at Dean in unmasked interest. There is not a small flip somewhere in his belly. Not at all.

 

“The Next Great American Empty Word Document,” Dean admits, throwing shame to the wind. He can’t help but feel drawn to the chuckle that met his quip, and he definitely doesn’t really mind when the man took it as an invitation to step closer.

 

“I wasn’t aware we required another one of those,” he remarks. “The economic crisis is indeed everywhere.” Dean resents the fact that he already likes the guy, who takes a drink of his coffee and considers Dean before swallowing. “What seems to be your problem?”

 

“Honestly? I ain’t got shit to say.”

 

There was a bark of a laugh in response to that, and Dean feels absurdly proud to see how entirely it changes the stranger’s face.

 

“You shouldn’t write because you want to say something. Write because you have something worth saying.”

 

“I am in no mood for paraphrasing Fitzgerald,” Dean says haughtily. This guy _smiles,_ cautious but comfortable, and Dean is instantly envious of his poise. Dean isn’t a poise kind of guy. He’s brusque and proud and hopefully endearing regardless. He hopes this guy spills his coffee on his poised tie as he gracefully gestures at the chair across from Dean. He hopes he gingerly sits in gum after Dean nods assent. He hopes his name is Mervin. “I’m Dean, by the way,” he offered.

 

He doesn’t spill a drop or sit in anything. “My name is Castiel.” Damn him.

 

A silence begins to stretch and Dean is uncomfortable under Castiel’s intense, appraising gaze, so he goes, “So you like Fitzgerald?” just to have something sitting there between them.

 

Castiel’s face becomes thoughtful. “Now that…is an interesting question.” His face is sort of naturally somber, Dean thinks. He seems in general to angle downward, sharp lines all pointing to a pout. “Intellectually, of course, I have a great respect for his deep impact on American authors and indeed that which would be come to known as American fiction, but,” and here his enigmatic smile returns, “if I’m being truly honest, I think he was a bit of an ass and I liked him better before I had to teach him every semester.”

 

“You teach,” Dean says, smiling.

 

“I suspect you do as well.” Castiel returns. He sighs dramatically. “This semester I am damned, as ever, to teach a class on The American Novel.”

 

“You must be tired of old F. Scott, then.” Dean is perfectly aware that he is failing in his efforts not to stare at Castiel’s hands, sending his cup on a gentle revolve through his fingers. “It is with a sense of deep irony and shame that I tell you I teach mostly writing classes.”

 

Castiel looks momentarily perturbed before his brow clears with understanding. “A writing teacher with writer’s block.”

 

“I am, indeed. Any ideas?”

 

“Well, I am not the expert here,” Castiel demurs, and Dean wants to punch him a little. “What would you tell a student with writer’s block?”

 

“I’d tell them to ask a pensive, mysterious stranger in a coffee shop for a few pointers.” Victory stirs in Dean when he sees a telltale pinking in Castiel’s cheeks. Take that, unruffled cohort.

 

“I don’t know how mysterious I am,” he replies somewhat dubiously, “but I can try.” There is a contemplative pause as Castiel looks out across the coffee shop. Dean wonders what he’s seeing beyond the students and dramas and steaming cups.

 

“This is silly and basic,” he mutters at last, “but I always find the notion of the sea rather romantic.” There is a chirp of a cell phone that leaves Castiel patting his pockets. “The Atlantic. Dark, brooding, epic.”

 

Sure enough, that sparks something in Dean’s muse. A ship. A shipwreck and a man desperate to do anything to bring his ship – his wife? Daughter? – back from the depths… There really could be something there.

 

“I’m afraid I must go,” Castiel says, looking at his phone with a carefully blank face.

 

“Totally. And thank you,” Dean says, and he finds that he means it. He is genuinely grateful.

 

“It was nice to talk with you. Take care, Dean,” he remarks, standing. “I hope I was of some help.”

 

“You were fantastic,” murmurs Dean, already typing as Castiel sweeps away.

 

It isn’t until later that night that Dean realizes. He doesn’t know where Castiel works or lives or even what his fucking last name it. And he’s just guessing at the spelling of Castiel, because seriously, what kind of name is that?

 

He feels a pang of disappointment that he fully refuses to acknowledge. “Just have to dedicate the manuscript to him,” Dean says to himself. He shoots off an email to Sammy and briefly considers texting that dance instructor from this last weekend. He made serious headway into something that might actually pan out. It’s been ages since he felt so vital.

 

In the end he decides to skip it, falling to bed with a smile on his face. The dancer is fine but he wasn’t going to pursue it much further anyway. He never really does. He works well on his own, and he’s fine with that. He traces a lazy hand up his forearm, slowly dragging fingertips across shoulder and chest before letting his hand fall to the side, letting sleep take him as he convinces himself that he’s not thinking of blazing navy blue stares and a purring chuckle and a strong jaw line.

 

He can’t be.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am attempting to put my written voice back together, and this is how I'm going to do it. I'm aware that I'm rusty and I'm feeling very shy about getting back into this. I would really appreciate feedback and I'm open to suggestions. This is a labor of love. Thank you for reading. Chapters will come when I finish them!
> 
> I really just started reading SPN fanfiction, which is awesome, but I'm getting a little weary of unintelligent portrayals of Dean. He sees himself as simple-minded, but he really is complicated and clever. That's why we love him. So this entire story is inspired by my need to do right by Dean, I guess.
> 
> The title is inspired by the Joni Mitchell song of the same name.


	2. And The Ghost of Your Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean pitches an idea and teaches a class. Sam is supportive but makes many troubled faces. And dreams can be deceiving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Blue Valentines by Tom Waits. This one is dedicated to E and A, without whom I would not have finished it. At all. (Can you tell I’ve done time as a teacher? I drafted a lesson plan for a short scene in a fanfiction full of imaginary ass people. A _lesson plan._ )

* * *

 

“I want to read it,” Sam demands. “I want to read your sexy pirate story.”

 

Dean snorts at him over his nachos. Although Sam was definitely a busy guy, he still necessitated that he get to spend at least two lunches a week shoveling food into his face with his big brother. Dean teases him for his neediness, but he’s always secretly fucking thrilled. He loves having cause to frequently meet his baby brother for junk food at the Enterprise, the best burger joint in town. He doesn’t admit it out loud much, but Sammy is his whole world, even when crammy greasy foodstuffs in his mouth. Especially then, even. It was nice that the devotion ran both ways. Kept Dean from feeling too soppy.

 

“Not much to read yet,” Dean says eventually, which wasn’t entirely true. But there was nothing sanded down enough to show anyone, much less his baby brother. Dean had been stoked to find that the words had come so easily the night before, but he wasn’t sure the story actually had any merit. “Nothing worth reading,” he amends fairly. “But it felt nice to put some words on a page.”

 

Dean tells him all about his coffee escapade, his unexpected help, and his tragic main character who fell in desperate love with his schooner while Sam nods into his burger. Dean likes it when Sam indulges in food not meant to be consumed by rabbits. His little brother was a bona fide health nut, and he always put up a big fuss when he looked at the menu. And then he inevitably ordered the most atrociously unwholesome thing he saw and relished the artery clogger when it landed in front of him. When Dean reaches for one of his fries, Sam nearly bites his hand. The jackass.

 

“With manners like that, how do you keep the women _off_ you?” Dean laughs into Sam’s immediate and burning bitchface. Oh, _that_ had hit a fucking nerve.

 

“I do nothing. Obviously my face keeps chasing them away,” Sam evades grumpily. Dean knows for a fact that isn’t true. Winchester genetics dictated that they be unusually angular and dashing as fuck. Sammy isn’t bad-looking. He’s certainly tall, anyway, and he has those big, blinking puppy dog eyes going for him. Ladies love that.

 

“Or your horribly intimidating job,” Dean offers. “’Hi, I’m Sam, I’m a private practice lawyer who’s a partner in a law firm I started with my ex-girlfriend. Wanna bang?’”

 

“My pitch exactly. Can you believe they don’t go for that?”

 

It’s hard to believe they don’t, actually, because who doesn’t want to bang a fit, semi-wealthy lawyer? The boys blow off some steam for the next ten minutes or so bemoaning the wiles of women and the hazards of meeting new people. “After all,” Dean states without thinking, “most _women_ aren’t going to roll up on your table in a café and flirt with you.”

 

Dean freezes and knows he’s gone too far when Sam’s eyebrows beat a hasty retreat up towards his hairline.

 

 _Shit shit shit._ Sammy was definitely going to read into that. He thought earlier when he first told Sam about his café encounter that he might’ve lingered too long on the details. Castiel’s voice, maybe. Had he mentioned how he couldn’t stop watching his hands? Sam has a way of seeing right into Dean’s head, and taking things a little further all on his own. Luckily at just that moment, the waitress chooses to appear. Dean prays that the minutes that ticked by would distract Sam entirely.

 

He doesn’t pray hard enough at all.

 

“So, this guy,” Sam starts with poorly affected nonchalance, “kind of left an impression on you, huh?”

 

This is high on the list of Shit Dean Isn’t Interested in Discussing, and he shoots a vaguely threatening glare at Sam over the table. “I’ll leave an impression on your face.”

 

“Seems like a really nice guy,” Sam’s continues good-naturedly. Dean snorts again, loud enough that Sam looks concerned. “Jesus, Dean, do you have a cold?”

 

“Nice? The guy was pushy. But,” he concedes, stuffing three chips in his mouth at once, “he dih willy heb me ow.”

 

“I always appreciate when folks _heb me ow_ ,” Sam replies drily. “You going to see him again?”

 

“Phrasing!” Dean warns, and Sam throws a cold fry at him. “I didn’t exactly get his credentials. All I know is he teaches at one of the local universities, sits down with strangers, sounds like Tom Waits after a bender, and is named Castiel.”

 

“Castiel?” Sam starts, blinking. “…what kind of a name is that?”

 

 _A gorgeous, weird, fitting name._ Dean laughs nervously. “I know, right?” Internally, he’s trying to reason out the best way to get Sam off this train of thought. Sam’s like a dog with a bone. He doesn’t know where this conversation is headed, but he does have some unregistered inklings and they’re suggesting a line of thought he isn’t willing to cross in his own head, let alone out loud. With Sam. Jesus. “I guess with a name like that, I could look him up, you know? Settle the debt.”

 

“A debt? You make it sound like he’s a plumber.”

 

“And he did provide a good service,” Dean brazens with a stupid grin. Sam allows him to let it go, but it’s clear from the expression on his face that he’s still preoccupied. Dean dodges. “Hey, what happened with that trashy heiress you were representing?”

 

Dean wants to get Sam’s ever-churning mind latched onto something else as quickly as possible. Judging by the little sigh and firm look he gives his brother, Sam sees through the ruse, but he pursues the conversation Dean opened anyway.

 

Dean distantly listens to Sam go on about his ex-client, but mostly he just watches his baby brother talk. They had taken a rough road together. When their mom died, their dad really lost it. He apparently found it again at the bottom of a bottle because he never came back up. The old bastard blamed Sammy, for absolutely no fucking reason. Sam had been a little thing, and their mom had gone back for him. Sammy made it out of the inferno. Their mother didn’t. John sold the family house along with all of his memories, worked out deals for extended stays in local hotels, and drank the rest. They moved from hotel room to hotel room for thirteen years.

 

Dean barely remembers having a home at all. He knows for a fact Sam doesn’t. And when John died… well, Dean took care of Sammy before that point, and he kept on doing it after. He thinks he did alright. Sammy had turned out to be so blindingly, amazingly brilliant. Dean admittedly doesn’t remember his mother well, but he figures she must’ve been a genius, because Sam was spectacular. He absorbed everything around him like a sponge. By the time they were in high school, Sam sometimes helped Dean with his homework, at least when it came to math.

 

Dean admires Sam as deeply as he loves him. In the end, Dean just doesn’t have the words to talk about these feelings. Sammy probably would.

 

There is so much about Sam that is beyond Dean. There always had been. Dean has distinct memories – not once or twice, but constantly – of little Sammy’s face, his expressions, showing in staggering detail the breadth of what his mind was capable of. Sam is so desperately internalized that Dean supposes he can’t properly blank his face, even at his own peril. Sam is too full, too bright, too much. And despite how much he gives off, there have always been moments that Dean just couldn’t read.

 

Sam knows more about Dean than anybody. The street goes both ways, but still. Sammy had seen Dean at his best and his worst, and every stage in between. He knew every hurt, every disappointment, every love, and every loss. And every single relationship, at that.

 

When Sam’s story drifts off, he gives Dean that knowing look, that I’ve-known-you-forever-and-known-you-best look he does so well. “Look, Dean. You can talk to me. About anything. You know that, right?”

 

But Dean ignores the long, troubled look Sammy is giving him over the table. He studies his nachos because he is extraordinarily disinterested in the compassion he will find there. He doesn’t need this kind of advice, and he definitely doesn’t want his little brother thinking it was okay for him to give it. Boundaries, man. Boundaries.

 

* * *

“I don’t think that’s fair, Professor Winchester.” Dean turns from the dry erase board to shoot a broad grin over his shoulder.

 

“Not a professor, Miss Bradbury, but why is that?”

 

Charlie’s cheeks pink a little, and Dean hopes it’s just from being teased. He needed to learn to dial his inherent Dean-ness back. The last thing he wants is another student with a pet crush. Last semester had been a lawsuit waiting to happen. “Mr. Winchester, then, sorry. Do you really think that art is only a guilty confession?”

 

Dean laughs despite himself, turning to finish out the quote on the board. “I do, or I don’t. It seems to me that Camus did, though.” He faces his class, all twenty-three of them in all their glory, and gestures broadly at them. “But I want to know what you guys think. Do you agree or disagree?”

 

About seven or eight hands shoot up immediately. Dean feels the slow smile slide across his face unbidden. It’s a sentimental feeling, but it was always a pleasant shock when his students actually wanted to say something back to him, instead of merely doodling on their prompts or feeding him a three-mile stare. Charlie’s raising her hand so hard that her entire head reddens to match her hair. While he would’ve liked to call on someone else, he also doesn’t want to risk a coronary. “Charlie?”

 

Her words came out in a breathless rush. “Absolutely not, I think it’s completely bullshit to say that art can’t come from a good and kind and beautiful place inside you, art should be a deep expression of who you are, it doesn’t need walls of guilt or pain.” She seems to take a deep breath and Dean wants to ruffle her hair. He doesn’t do so, of course.

 

“Fair enough. Alfie?”

 

“I don’t know, I think real artistic expression comes from, like, writing about things you know. You have to tell your own story, right? Write what you know.” He pauses. “That’s kind of like a confession, though, isn’t it?”

 

Instead of answering it himself, Dean calls on another student to do it for him. The conversation has a slow burn, but it’s something, with Dean occasionally adding a comment here and there or setting them back on the right path. This is good. Dean likes it when the kids lead the discussion. In a class about creativity, it’s never good practice to lecture and assign and hope your points are making an impact. Dean gestures to the board after a while, deciding it was time to bring the conversation to an apex.

 

**A guilty heart needs to confess. A work of art is a confession.**

“So, if we were to read into old Albert’s spiel, what could we surmise about the nature of inspiration?” Dean asks, looking around.

 

A sea – well, a medium lake – of incredulity and indecision stare back at him. He barely suppresses a sigh. It had been the start of a good discussion. “Come on, guys, work with me, here. Do you buy it? Show of hands, who thinks Camus was at least _on_ to something here?”

 

A majority of the fists in the room sneak upward. “Cool. So Camus is pretty fucking smart.” There is a surge of incredulous laughter and Dean bites the inside of his cheek as his students sit up straighter and look around. _Whoops_. “But you guys are, too. And I heard a lot of talk just now, and it wasn’t only about guilt. Keep in mind, this is just Camus! One limited perspective. A brilliant one,” Dean concedes, “but not the only perspective.” He walked slowly back and forth in front of the class to keep their attention. “Lincoln believed that artistic inspiration was divine. Wilde believed art was the purest expression of individualism. Dali believed he _was_ art. Nietzsche believed we need art so that we don’t _die of the truth_.”

 

There’s a smattering of low laughter and a few nods, and Dean feels a little emboldened. “So what can we say about inspiration? Is there anything universal?”

 

“I think there is,” a quiet voice sounds from the back of the room. Dean looks up at Kevin, who is slight and a little underfed. Kevin did not usually contribute much to conversations, but his prose always came back striking, if not a little maudlin. “I just…” he starts awkwardly, then clears his throat. “Everyone here, and all those guys you just said, they were all kind of saying the same thing, right? Whether it’s absolved guilt or God or identity, it’s all about longing, isn’t it?”

 

Kevin looks nervously around the room. The whole class stares at him, appropriately taken aback by the profundity. A few of them even comically had their mouths open. Dean’s could’ve fucking died. “Everything. Everything is about longing.”

 

Dean clears his throat, and the students shift back around in their seats. “Well,” he says after a carefully measured pause, “I think Mr. Tran just came up with today’s writing prompt.” He sees Kevin blush, probably from the clear admiration in Dean’s voice. He walks to the board and begins to erase the Camus. “Pencils out.”

 

* * *

_Dean’s back arched up off the bed without his permission. He felt the throaty chuckle against his ribs more than he heard it. “You like that, eh? I knew you would.”_

_Dean cursed internally and suppressed the whine in his chest as teeth grazed across his chest, willing himself to calm as heated breaths ghosted over his already suffering skin. This was wrong, probably. This wasn’t going the way he’d imagined it, anyway. He could practically hear his mind derailing. He writhed against scratchy sheets, worried Sam would hear, worried he had no idea how he got there. Lips trailed along his neck and his whole body shivered, betraying him. The upper hand had slipped away from him at some point and he wasn’t sure he cared._

_“You are fucking beautiful.” The voice was breathless now, ragged. Dean tore at belt buckles and zippers, freeing as much of the other man’s body as he could. He wanted to run his hands down the fabric of his flesh. His hands fumbled gracelessly, and he felt young, and stupid, and filled with impossible need._

_“I want to make you scream.” Lips met his, rough and demanding. “I want to ruin you.”_

_Something snapped in him. Dean suddenly shifted his weight and pressed one heel into the bed, firmly flipping both of their bodies and trapping the other man, who gasped audibly, maybe from the role reversal, maybe from desire. Dean glorified in his shock, slamming hips to hips with a feral grin._

_“Hate to disappoint,” Dean growled darkly, pinning wrists against the headboard and leaning in close, “but the world beat you to it.”_

_“I’m glad it did.” The rhythm started up between them, and Dean forced a slow, scalding pace, luxuriating in the friction of the fabric between their circling hips. He fit sharp teeth to neck and felt his world burn. “This is the way you’re meant to be, Dean. Twisted. Broken.” Dean shut Benny up with a searing kiss, but the next word slipped out between hitched breaths all the same. “Mine.”_

Dean jolts awake with a strangled gasp. He’s out of bed and staggering to the bathroom in an instant, dripping sweat. He takes one look at his pale, drawn face in the mirror, steps to his left, and neatly throws up in the toilet.

 


	3. Goodnight and Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean dislikes freshmen and staff meetings and possibly Gabriel. But now and then, he does enjoy getting drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: alcohol use! (Obviously.) This is a very rough draft, but damn, I wanted to post it. I really enjoy writing drunk people. If you want to see more of this, you can go bother me at my tumblr. I respond well to being nudged about things. Link's in my profile.

* * *

 

"And that’s the last I want to hear about it,” Dean snaps over the groans of many a beleaguered freshman. “This is an Intro to Fiction class. There are going to be writing assignments.”

 

“But there’s a _game_ this weekend,” one particularly bold student presses. Dean looks up from the papers he’s gathering with an air of great surprise.

 

“A _game_? An actual sports event? At a _university_?” Dean briefly considers pretending to faint and decides that his students probably need to be taking him more seriously than that. “You have a long weekend. Your prospectus is due _on_ this desk at the _beginning_ of class on _Monday_ ,” he grinds out, “printed. And cited in MLA format!” he hollers over another round of groans.

 

“Our time is just about up today, but I gotta tell you, I want you to take this group project seriously. I know, group work can be difficult.” Dean secretly loathes group projects with the same fiery passion he usually reserves for conversations involving the word “zeitgeist”, but it’s part of the learning experience. “This isn’t something you can throw together at the last minute. It’s worth twenty percent of your total grade. Twenty percent! Take your time, and really think about what you want to say. You’re going to be working on this for the next few weeks. Make it something worth spending time on.” He looked at his watch. “All right, get outta my sight, you bunch of lunatics.”

 

Dean resists the urge to sigh over the grumbling and slamming of chairs around, but it’s a battle. The bulk of these students are probably good kids, and there are certainly plenty of smart ones. Teaching 100-level classes to sixty-plus grumbling teenagers who are only just getting the hang out adulthood is trying, though. Dean hates teenagers. And whining. And back talk.

 

“Can I ask you a favor?”

 

Dean stalls above his briefcase and the sigh comes unbidden. He pulls himself upright and levels a stern glare at the young woman standing in front of him. “It’s the third week of class.”

 

She flushes scarlet everywhere and winces. “I-I know, I just…” Dean tastes remorse on the back of his tongue at her defeated expression when she trails off uncertainly. Damn it. “I’m not good at meeting other s-students.”

 

He can feel his expression soften. He glimpses around at the departing sea of students. Most leave in easy groups of two or three, but his eyes find the stragglers, the leaners, the ones looking as panicked as the hapless waif in front of him. Fucking, _fucking_ freshmen.

 

“Hey!” he hollers, shocking quiet yelps out of half the students there. Many freeze on their way out the door. “If you ain’t got a group to work with, stay behind. And then introduce yourself,” he adds thoughtfully. Waifish girl shoots him a grateful look. She steps back from his desk and is quickly joined by about nine others.

 

“Your teaching methods are a bit unusual, you know,” comes a gruff voice from the doorway. “Some might call it dumb.” Dean doesn’t bother hiding his grin as he turns to face his boss.

 

“Professor Singer!” he gushes in an oily, insipid way. “What a delight to have you in my classroom!”

 

“Stop battin’ your eyelashes at me, Winchester, you know you’re to call me Bobby,” the man grunts. “Everybody calls me Bobby.”

 

“Yet I remain Winchester,” Dean counters mournfully. “To what do I owe this awesome pleasure, sir?”

 

“I’ll sir you.” Bobby levels a cool look at Dean, who has the grace to shift uncomfortably. “You’ve missed both departmental meetings.”

 

“Well, I have a very good excuse.”

 

“Two very good excuses, I should damn well hope.”

 

Dean coughs. “I’m sorry, Bobby, but I get so little time to see Sam…”

 

It was a nasty card to play, and Dean feels a pang of regret when he sees how instantly Bobby’s face eases up and sympathizes. Dean’s a jerk. He knows it. But Bobby _loves_ Sam, and Dean _hates_ meetings.

 

“How is the big shot?” Dean smiles through his guilt, because Bobby has been there, through every uncomfortable step of their lives, and if there’s anyone who could be prouder of Sam than Dean, it’s Bobby Singer, whiskey-soaked, pipe-smoking surrogate father figure though he may be.

 

“He’s amazing, as expected. Developing quite a reputation. In a good way, of course. He already has a healthy client-base. Though he may have bit off more than he can chew, working with Ruby full time.”

 

Bobby rolls his eyes. “Idjit. What he was ever thinking, starting up with her again, I’ll never figure. ” Bobby narrows his eyes at him, suddenly businesslike. “Meeting in five minutes. And look, here I am to walk you there.”

 

Dean snorts as his last few students left the room, chatting animatedly. “I was going to go, anyway. Didn’t have to frog-march me.”

 

“Liar,” Bobby rumbles, holding open the door. Dean laughs and checks under the desks for any articles left behind before dutifully leaving.

 

The university bustles with life. Students gather in happy, hormonal clumps, discussing classes and comparing degree requirements while trying their best to lounge attractively against things. Autumn has just begun to caress the edges of the leaves and Dean can practically smell it on the air, coming in a wave of scarves and boots and a campus-wide obsession with the phrase “pumpkin spice”. Bobby and Dean stroll amicably between buildings towards the administrative office. Bobby swears off gossip like the plague but he always seems to be the one telling Dean about the latest scandal.

 

“And she tells me – ME – that I have no right to tell her what to do!”

 

“Seriously?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“With her hands still down a student’s pants.”

 

“Pretty much.”

 

“Shit.”

 

“I know it.” Bobby stops and sighs. “It’s hard to find good help, Winchester. The economy’s fucked and you can’t tell anymore who really cares about teaching or who’s…well, like you.”

 

“Hey!”

 

“You know what I mean,” Bobby chuckles darkly. “Lucky thing you ended being a dab hand at teaching, but everyone is falling back on this profession like it’s nothing more than a twice damned back-up plan, and we keep finding the worst ones, I swear.”

 

Dean looks over at his mentor. Bobby was absolutely born for this. He was born to lead others to knowledge, to teach them, to help them. He could be a father to the fucking world. And he had a gift for teaching without making people feel uncomfortable, walking a genius line between gruff and guileless that people respond to intuitively. He is one of those rare people whose career really does define him, and he stakes himself on his title. Dean can’t imagine how frustrating it is, to go an endless round with people who have no respect for what he does, when he believes so fervently in it. “How many new teachers we got?”

 

Bobby sighs and closes his eyes. “Five.”

 

Dean’s mouth falls open. “ _Five_?” He hadn’t realized it had been that bad. They had a relatively small department, after all. “How they looking?”

 

“You’d know, if you’d _been around to meet them_ ,” Bobby growls. They had reached the administrative building, and Bobby yanks open the door with a grimace. “I’ve had to explain your absence twice already, boy. It ain’t doin’ any great shakes for the department’s rep, so the sun better shine outta your ass when you walk in today.”

 

They ascend the stairs, Bobby huffing along. Dean traces his fingers along the fourth floor sign that reads _English Department: Literature and Creative Writing_. “I’m gettin’ too old for this,” Bobby breathes, as he does every time he climbs this staircase. Bobby’s reliable to a fault. A swell of insane affection invades Dean’s chest and he claps Bobby on the shoulder, propelling him into the department.

 

“You’ll be fine, old man.”

 

“I’m not too old to tan your hide,” Bobby grouses, but he doesn’t quite shrug Dean off.

 

Dean’s hand does fall from Bobby’s shoulder as they approach the conference room, though. A quick glance through the thin windows framing the door lets him know that everyone is pretty much there and sitting down already. Fucking perfect. “Looks like we’re making an entrance,” Dean murmurs. Bobby laughs darkly.

 

“Damn straight you are,” he says ominously, opening the door and gesturing for Dean to pass through it first. Dean shoots him a surreptitious glare but grins broadly as he steps through the door, glancing around. Everything gets quiet, and Dean is suddenly struck by sympathy for zoo animals.

 

“Well, look who decided he still works here!” The sardonic ring of Gabriel’s enthusiastic false shock echoes through the sudden hush of the room. A few people titter. Dean considers it a mark of his steely masculinity that he doesn’t blush at all.

 

“Gabe! You look great. I almost didn’t recognize you without a shot glass.”

 

“Alright, you two,” Bobby growls over the inhalations and nervous laughter. Gabriel winks at Dean and Dean still can’t decide whether or not he likes the asshole. “Enough flirtation. For those of you who haven’t met him, this is Dean Winchester.” After a few seconds, Bobby smacks him on the shoulder. “Don’t be rude, introduce yourself, boy.”

 

Twenty-five sets of appraising eyes fall on Dean and he wants to sink into the floor. Nothing quite like being called “boy” in front of people you have to work with indefinitely. He’s all too aware that he isn’t wearing his teacherly best and he might have spilled coffee on his shirt. Gabriel looks like he might die of glee.

 

Dean brazens it out. “Hi, everyone. I’m Dean Winchester. I teach here.”

 

He glances over at Bobby, who smirks condescendingly. Dean wants to smack him. He does not do so. “Adjunct Faculty, M.A. in Creative Writing. I, uh, specialize in short fiction. In addition to my requisite classload, I’m the secondary Assistant Director of Creative Writing and also the advising faculty for students pursuing Creative Writing in general, though I mostly talk them out of it.” He winks. “I like pie.”

 

Gentle laughter is good, Dean thinks, looking around at the crowd. There’s some knowing eye rolling from a few close colleagues, but other than that, Dean suspects that he’s home free. He eyeballs the crowd for the new meat and sees all five of them, clumped together to his left.

 

A young kid, eyes wide and bright. Probably a few years younger than Dean. Three women, all lookers, though he doesn’t much care for the steely edge he notices in the blonde’s eye. And –

 

Dean’s breath catches in his throat.

 

Of. Fucking. Course.

 

Eyebrows high with apparent surprise, lips set in a casual line with just a quirk at the corner, five o’clock shadow ghosting over a sharp jawline, Castiel looks like a cross between a well-dressed hobo and a slightly rumpled insurance salesman. He contemplates Dean with a slight broadening of his smile, like he’s only just realizing why the other man looked familiar. If Dean weren’t so surprised, he might’ve been a little offended. His recognition of Castiel had been instantaneous and pervasive. Fucker.

 

“I think we’re all glad to know you like pie,” Bobby is grousing, and Dean grudgingly moves his gaze back to his mentor’s face with a cheeky grin. “As you can see, we got the newest additions to our crew right over here. You can go ingratiate yourself there,” and he points at the seat next to Gabriel. It also happens to be a few feet from Castiel.

 

Dean walks with far too much thought – _am I swaggering too much? Less swag. How do I walk professionally?_ – over to his seat and slumps into it with what he knows is palpable relief. Fucking Bobby.

 

“You look like you need a drink,” Gabriel whispers lowly into Dean’s ear while Bobby drones on about updates to university policy respecting dress code or some such shit.

 

“You would know all about that,” Dean whispers back, without venom. Gabriel chuckles darkly.

 

“I probably would.” Gabriel was always looking for Dean to come out with him, because Dean ‘attracts good eye candy’ and also because Dean is an infamously silly drunk. Gabriel knows that firsthand, and Dean can’t help but wonder whether he knows the inebriated faces of all of their colleagues.

 

Inevitably, he gets to wondering what Castiel looks like drunk. The other man hasn’t so much as looked over at Dean, and it makes him equal parts relieved and annoyed. He is probably not a sloppy drunk. He is most likely adorably bleary but still somehow composed. Shirt still tucked in, but tie askew?

 

“See something you like?” Gabe whispers casually, eyes following the line of Dean’s sight.

 

Dean starts a little and drags his gaze away from where it was lingering at the pulse point of Castiel’s neck. “I see change,” he evades, as Bobby starts getting really fired up about departmental funds allocation. Dean is perversely glad he doesn’t have to care about things like that. Gabriel nods sagely.

 

“As a white person, it is my greatest fear,” he mutters solemnly. “Ten thirty. I’ll meet you at the Gates.”

 

* * *

 

“This,” Dean says slowly, looking around him, “is a gay bar.”

 

“This,” Gabriel counters grandly, shoving a shot glass in Dean’s hand, “is an everyone bar. Loosen up.”

 

“Why did I come out here with you?” Dean asks wonderingly. He is largely ignored.

 

“Shots, bro!” Dean does not particularly like shots. He likes beer, and sometimes he likes whiskey, but he doesn’t gauge himself well when he’s drinking shots at bars. He mentions this to Gabriel, who helpfully points out that this evening isn’t about gauging himself. Dean concedes. The shot tastes like sugary lemon candy and it’s genuinely horrible.

 

“So what’s been weighing on that pretty little mind of yours?” Gabriel leers at him. Dean’s shoots him the gruffest, manliest look he can while still tonguing the weird lemon flavor away. “Don’t you pout at me. Ow!”

 

“Watch yourself, Gabe,” Dean warns without conviction, but he quails a little beneath the other man’s pierce, knowing look. “I’ve just got a lot on my plate.”

 

“A lifetime of riding the coattails of a brief, barely deserved fame,” Gabriel says mournfully. “You peaked too soon, my friend.” He dodges Dean’s second swat.

 

“Why did I come out here with you?” Dean asks again, more pointedly, as Gabe pushes to the two shot glasses towards the barkeep. His cohort merely winks as the glasses fill with straight tequila. It hits Dean’s stomach like battery acid, but the burn is kind of nice. Grounding.

 

“Seriously, Winchester, I don’t buy it. Busy doesn’t bother you. You’re a man of action.”

 

“Fair enough,” Dean replies. He weighs his options, and with the tequila’s help, decides that _fuck it_. “I’m working through some demons. That better?”

 

“More honest, sure. More intriguing, definitely. More _information_ , please.”

 

“You are a nosy bitch.”

 

“And you are terrible at avoiding things.” Gabriel shifts his weight to momentarily wink and gesture at the bartender. Two more shots appear in front of them. Dean groans. “Actually, no. You’re terrible at being subtle.” The third set of shots is taken and they’ve only been there for a few minutes. Something in the back of Dean’s mind shouts a warning. “But you are certainly pigheadedly persistent. Which is sort of a way of being good at avoiding things.”

 

Dean’s lost track of the conversation, so Gabriel boops him on the nose. “You’re too mysterious for your own good.”

 

“Yeah, yeah.”

 

“I’m being serious,” Gabriel says, and he seems to mean it. It makes Dean uncomfortable. “It’s not healthy, man.”

 

There is a long pause because Dean doesn’t know what to say and he didn’t come out to wax poetic on the ephemerality of human life. He came to get distracted. Gabriel sighs eventually and after ordering a gin and tonic for himself and a beer for Dean, he drops his hands to Dean’s shoulders.

 

“Fair enough, fancypants,” he says, shaking him a little. “If you won’t talk, you shall dance.”

 

Dean sputters a little. “The hell I will.”

 

“You can’t dance?”

 

“I can dance!” Deans snaps. “I can. I just don’t.”

 

“Alright, princess,” Gabriel rolls his eyes. “You’re in charge of keeping my drink roofie-free.”

 

“Bitch.” Maybe not the best comeback ever, but Dean’s having a hard time focusing, with the pounding bass and the spilled liquor odor and the fucking glitter _everywhere_.

 

Gabriel saunters away and Dean drinks his beer and people watches. Okay, he people listens. It’s a favorite pastime of his, a sort of a way for him to idly hone his storytelling skills. He allows his subconscious to flit in and out of other people’s conversations, filling in the gaps in their stories with stories of his own, making little rules about not looking into the faces around him and such. So far he has been privy to the three worst pick-up attempts he has ever heard, a sobbing meeting of the minds that may or may not coalesce into a lasting best-friendship, and what was either a huge break-up or a moderate sibling fight. Occasionally he looks out at the dance floor to check up on Gabriel, which is entirely unnecessary because Gabe is in his element. At some point the bartender buys him another beer and it has something to do with loneliness and his eyes but Dean didn’t really catch the wording.

 

“Hey, buddy. You look really deep in thought.”

 

Dean listens without looking to one of the failed pick-up artists from before. His voice is grimy and the choked laugh barely stays silent in Dean’s throat at the guy’s silky tone and utter lack of game.

 

“I am,” an even and painfully familiar voice returns. “I am thinking about entomology.”

 

And the universe is really that fucking ludicrous.

 

Dena glances over his shoulder and sure enough, there is his brand new coworker, being hit on by a spectacularly flawed seducer. The guy presumptuously slides onto the edge of the stool beside Castiel, leaning his body weight in against the slightly smaller man. Dean suppresses the flare of minor annoyance because of the look on Castiel’s face. Vaguely he wonders how the other guy doesn’t flinch away from the obvious dismissal.

 

“Wow. Deep stuff,” the guy purrs. He’s actually not hideous, for a blond, but unfortunately for him he keeps talking. “That’s, like, where words come from, right?”

 

“That is not at all what it’s like.” A bubble of semi-hysterical laughter rises in him at the bored, introspective disinterest he sees on Castiel’s face. Dean resolutely stares down into his beer.

 

“Oh.” The guy sounds less sure of himself.

 

“It is the study of insects.”

 

“Cool,” the blond dude replies, rallying. “Well, what can you tell me about entomology, handsome?”

 

“Next to nothing.” Cas’ voice is amicable, walking that bizarre line of unwaveringly casual and amused that he seems to do so well. “That is why I’m thinking about it.”

 

Dean could fucking _die_ right now.

 

“I know so little about bees,” he continues in his rasping way, and Dean can perfectly envision the blank look on the other guy’s face. “But I know implicitly that they are useful. They serve a valuable function, and their lives have an order, born of a chaos. They need to communicate so little, but they do it through dance. As humans, we think of the hive mind as a kind of a trap, but I wonder if it isn’t a kind of freedom, too.” Dean absolutely can’t help himself. He looks over his shoulder again, mostly to see this other guy’s face. His eyes find Castiel’s raised eyebrow and smile, and on some level, he wishes they were pointed at him. “I think I could learn a lot from bees.”

 

Dean honestly can’t tell if Castiel is fucking with this guy or not, but all at once he makes a strange connection he can’t explain, like he’s finally begun to understand something about this mysterious guy who would sit down with a stranger at a cafe and talk about nothing. Dean likes the play of friendly condescension on Castiel’s face as he appraises his would-be suitor. Cas has an interesting face and that thought feels weird and he doesn’t much care. Dean’s actually starting to care a little about bees, though, and that is probably the liquor.

 

Dean looks around at the glasses surrounding his space and realizes that he has had a lot more booze than he thought and he has no idea how long he’s been there. He turns to ask the bartender for the time.

 

And there is Gabriel, holding a pair of very tall shot glasses, looking for all the world like the cat who got the cream. He’s staring at Dean, and he’s doing it _knowingly_.

 

Dean fumbles. “How long have you been - ”

 

“Oh ho _ho_!” Gabriel practically screeches in Dean’s ear. “Are you fucking _kidding_ me right now? Dean Winchester is having a big gay panic over Captain Asperger’s?”

 

“Hey, slow your fucking roll, talking like that,” Dean snaps. “You’re a goddamn educator.”

 

“Oh, take a joke, princess. Shots!”

 

They take them. They are like booze-y cough drops and Dean hates them.

 

“Why did I come out here with you?”

 

“But seriously, the new guy! Do you want to hit that?”

 

“I want to hit you.” Dean blanches at the corresponding leer. “Oh, for fuck’s sake! You know what I mean!”

 

“Unfortunately, I do.” Dean watches himself being appraised and squirms nervously. “Crying shame.”

 

“Jesus, man, I had no idea you were so into dudes.”

 

Gabriel laughs, sudden and honest. “I am so into _everyone_!” he roars, and the ten people within earshot cheer so obnoxiously that Dean actually laughs out loud. He might actually like this place. The clientele is so friendly and inclusive. How many shots was that?

 

“Don’t get me wrong, I actually really _like_ Castiel,” Gabriel admits abruptly. “Much too good for you, honestly.”

 

“Hey! I resent that. Kind of. I don’t know.”

 

“He deserves better than a closet case with deep purple prose issues, anyway.”

 

“Do me a favor and go get yourself another shot of Go Fuck Yourself.”

 

“That’s the thing, Dean-o,” Gabriel drawls over his shoulder, already sauntering back towards the dance floor. “I never have to fuck myself.”

 

Dean doesn’t doubt that, actually. For all his bullshit, Gabriel is certainly popular. If he weren’t so damn peculiar, Dean might consider getting some pointers from him.

 

Suddenly there are two really cute ladies asking if he’s buying the shots and the bartender is rolling his eyes with a smile and Dean notices that Castiel has moved off somewhere else and he hopes blindly that it isn’t with that artless blond guy and things get kind of blurry with Dean for a while. It’s kind of a nice feeling, though. Dean hasn’t raged in a good, long while. He’s gets talked into dancing at one point and there’s a big group of them and Gabriel’s hands are on his hips at one point and he’s laughing. He says Dean is a good dancer and Dean gets to say _I told you so_ and then there are more girls and more hips and Dean is really enjoying himself.

 

He likes dancing. As much as he hates a club when he’s trying to talk or have a drink, he loves the pound of the bass and the flashing lights when it’s time to move his body. The rhythm is comforting. There is something base-level human about it, triumphant, freeing. All cultures dance, and there must be a reason, and innateness calling out for humanity to move together, to thrive together. When Dean realizes how philosophical and sappy his thoughts are getting, he makes a beeline for the bar and demands a water. Castiel is also at the bar, a few paces away. There’s a different bartender, a chick. Which is cool. He likes those.

 

He likes lots of things, really. Finishing stories. Pie. Brunch.

 

Bees, though. Bees are kind of interesting.

 

And somehow he has ended up sidling beside Cas and tapping him on the shoulder. The floor is unsteady beneath him. What the fuck is he doing?

 

“Dean.” There is surprise there and Castiel’s eyes are wide and dark and a little glassy in the lights of the club.

 

“Castiel,” Deans attempts to sound as sober as possible. “You were speaking of bees.”

 

This is a weird thing to say and Dean would have known it even if Cas didn’t squint and his eyebrows didn’t furrow in the middle. Dean shifts uncomfortably and makes a valiant attempt to level an even stare back at Castiel. He finds himself incapable of matching that degree of intensity, because he’s a normal fucking person, not a cyborg engineered with Dean’s privacy issues in mind, and also he really wants to know what Cas’ stubble feels like.

 

“When did I mention bees?”

 

“With some guy. You were thinking about bees that aren’t there. He was confused.”

 

Castiel’s face begins a slow transition from charmingly befuddled to something that makes Dean’s insides play a frantic game of musical chairs. Tiny wrinkles gather around his eyes and cheeks as a grin dawns all over his adorable face and Dean wants to hide under something. He is genuinely considering lurching under the nearest table when Castiel quietly asks, “You were listening?”

 

Dean’s cheeks are heated and he is profoundly aware of his slur. Castiel’s face is unfair. His body, too. All of it. Dean feels defiant and wobbly. Defiantly wobbly. “It wasn’t weird! I couldn’t help but overhear, I was listening to _everybody_ , people are all stories, and yours was distracting.”

 

“I didn’t mean to distract you.”

 

“S’okay. Be my friend.”

 

“Dean, you’re very drunk,” Castiel says, and he sounds quite concerned. This makes Dean grin into his shoulder for some reason, and he only then realizes that his weight is being supported by someone else. It’s Cas. Hilarious!

 

“I am not sure this qualifies as hilarious,” Castiel replies, but there’s a smile in his voice. Dean suspects he may be saying things out loud. “When did you start calling me Cas?”

 

“I think I’m going to be sick on you,” Dean announces blearily, and Cas shifts him so he isn’t nuzzling at Cas’ neck anymore. Wait, fuck?

 

“Let’s not do that,” Cas says in his low rumbling awesome way. He keeps talking, something about a jacket, and Dean tunes the actual words out because life is short and he’s in Cas’ arms which are too warm but mostly also very nice with the rumbling feeling and the floor is spinning a lot and if Dean listens too hard he won’t focus on not throwing up because that is not sexy and it is very important that Dean is sexy right now.

 

“Hey, buddy,” Gabriel laughs in his face out of nowhere. “What, exactly, are you doing?”

 

“Gabe!” Dean replies, and he launches himself into Gabe’s arms and maybe almost knocks him over. He is really glad to see Gabe, because Gabe is funny and Dean wants to hug him and he does not get impossible butterflies around Gabe. “Whoa, you’re drunk.”

 

“A trait we share, I think.” Gabriel is supporting him and he smells like the sweat of many dudes and also like nice cologne. “Sweetheart, you’re a hot, hot mess.”

 

“Still hot, though,” Dean says, but he is suddenly perturbed. He spins around and it is a huge mistake and he doesn’t quite fall over. Or actually he does, but he gets back up. “Where’s Cas?”

 

“Cas is paying his tab and probably trying to let you save some much needed face.”

 

Dean feels his face flush even hotter than it was before which is impossible and oh God, he is really, really drunk. “I am really, really drunk!”

 

“Fact.” Gabe is leading him somewhere and Dean trusts him enough and it feels good to follow so he can fixate.

 

“I was drunk all over everything.”

 

“You have been spectacularly embarrassing.”

 

“I just wanted to tell him about the bees,” Dean groaned. They are outside somehow.

 

“I think he probably got what you were trying to say.”

 

“Why did I come out here with you?” Dean moans piteously. Gabriel consolingly rubs his back before unceremoniously shoving his drunk ass into a cab.

 


	4. Friday Left Me Fumblin’ with the Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelries lead to revelations, possibly, but more likely to hangovers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Still shy, still nervous. Once again, feel free to follow me at my [tumblr](http://trustdreams.tumblr.com/). I can always use encouragement, and also, I'm always willing to talk.
> 
> This chapter goes out to E, for conceptfriending, and to MM, for betafriending.

* * *

 

Dean is aware of pain for several minutes before he’s actually conscious. He never understands why, in writing, people imply that someone wakes up, and then realizes there is a hangover going on, in that order. Dean knows he is hungover before he remembers that he is Dean. Every part of Dean is aware that he is hungover.  His hangover is so profound that it has become an extension of his self. 

 

Dean is hangover. Hangover is Dean. 

 

Dean cautiously cracks open one eye and immediately regrets it. 

 

It takes several moments for him to realize that there are sounds in his apartment that he is not making. This is probably why he is awake. Dean tries to remember if he has a pet. He’s reasonably sure he doesn’t. 

 

His bedroom door opens. Dean may not remember where he lives but he’s pretty sure doors shouldn’t open themselves. With Herculean effort he rolls over to see what the fuck is going on. 

 

Gabriel is standing shirtless in his doorway with a coffee mug and a smirk. 

 

What. 

 

“Good morning, princess,” he purrs. Gabriel is clearly not suffering like Dean is suffering and it’s the opposite of fair. “You were spectacular last night.” 

 

“No,” Dean says, because it’s the only way he can respond to that. He finds a pillow by his hand and puts it over his face. 

 

“Don’t be like that, you magnificent stud. You took me places I’ve never been. I was undone.” 

 

“No,” Dean repeats in a muffled way. He wants to run away and only manages to flail his hands around a bit. He wants to be a little bit dead. He hopes he didn’t really bang Gabe. 

 

The bed dips near him and he knows Gabe has sat down. The pillow disappears and Gabe’s grinning face looms over his. “Don’t deny what we have, Dean. We could be glorious.” 

 

“I hate you,” Dean replies, but he sits up and accepts the coffee, glaring. “I didn’t sleep with you.” 

 

Gabriel sighs and rolls his eyes. “No. I don’t think you did.” 

 

“What happened?” His voice is rough and dry and ill-used. Fucking noisy-ass dance clubs, with their glitter and their – 

 

His brain grinds to a halt. He slowly turns, wide-eyed to look at Gabriel, because _he_ was there. Castiel. Dean _remembers things_ , but only _something._ Last night’s really fucking blurry. Everything is blurry.  Jesus fuck, what did he _do?_  

 

Gabriel’s eyes are twinkling with undisguised mirth. “So… last night was fun.” His tone is too casual. Dean would choke him, but the coffee cup is almost too heavy for his grip right now. 

 

“Oh, God.” 

 

“Oh, yes.” 

 

Dean closes his eyes against the world. “Oh, no.” 

 

“Cheer up, Dean-o,” Gabe says, clapping him briefly on the shoulder before launching off the bed. “We have a full pot of coffee and a decent hangover breakfast and a fuckton of water for you to drink.” He stalls in the doorway. “Dean.” Deans opens his eyes and just looks at him. Gabe’s returning smile is more warm and understanding this time around. 

 

“What did I do?” he repeats, mortified. 

 

“You drank too much, you let me crash on your couch, and you had a good time. That’s what’s important.” 

 

Dean feels his face crumple. “Oh, God. There’re so many gaps.” 

 

“Get dressed, kid.” Gabriel is being sympathetic, which Dean finds vaguely ominous. “You weren’t as bad as you could’ve been. We can talk about it over breakfast.” He pads out of the room. After several pained attempts, Dean manages to roll off his bed, and if he needs to get down into a kneeling position to get his equilibrium, that’s no one’s business but his. He peels off his sticky, liquor-sweat scented shirt from last night before he even realizes he’s still wearing his jeans. Armed with a fresh pair of sweatpants and a cleaner t-shirt, Dean clutches his coffee cup and wobbles warily into his own living room. 

 

There are about fifteen pancakes and a giant pile of scrambled eggs on the table. Dean can smell bacon. If this is a dream, it’s a good one. “Are you God? You’re actually God.” 

 

“Nope. I’m just here to do his work!” Gabriel singsongs. “Today it comes in the form of coffee and brunch. Sit. Eat. Be merry, for Monday, we watch research proposals die.” 

 

Dean is too bewildered to do much more than sit and let Gabe pile things on a plate in front of him. Luckily he only feels vaguely nauseated, and while he doesn’t much enjoy the tactile sensation of eating at the moment, he lets the other man cajole him into cramming a sufficient amount of sustenance down. When Dean can’t take the suspense any more, he puts down the fork and picks up his pride and asks Gabriel to fill him in on the fuzzy details. Gabriel wasn’t with him all night, but he saw and heard and asked enough to get most of the story. Mostly because he’s a delirious gossip hound, but there you go. Dean wants to die, and it’s right around then that Gabe wants to talk about _feelings._  

 

“I just don’t get why you’re running from this.” 

 

Dean drops his head melodramatically into his hands. Gabriel throws something in his hair. Bacon, possibly. 

 

“You weren’t that bad. It was fucking cute. And Castiel agreed, if his hands wandering around your body were any indication.” Dean’s head snaps up a little too fast, and his booze-addled psyche spins. “Oh, yes. Feel _totally_ copped.” 

 

“I’m sure,” Dean mutters, but he wonders, remembering Cas’ slow grin and low, soothing tones. 

 

“Man, he’s into it. _You’re_ into it,” Gabriel adds exasperatedly. “ _Go for it_.” 

 

“I never fucking said that,” Dean snaps, favoring Gabe with his coldest glare. Gabe for his part looks surprised but unintimidated. 

 

“So, what? You’re too _straight_ to do this?” 

 

The statement hangs heavy between them. 

 

“You’re so fucking complicated,” Gabriel complains at Dean’s sullen silence. “Are you seriously going to void this eminently hot transaction out of archaic social pressure to walk the straight and heteronormative?” 

 

“I have my reasons.” 

 

“Yeah, well,” Gabriel snaps, incensed, and Dean realizes for the first time that he might be acting pretty insulting, “you’ve also got a raging gay crush on Castiel. You can’t take your eyes off the enigmatic little fucker, and you practically poured yourself into his lap last night. So there’s _that_.” 

 

Dean has the grace to look abashed but says nothing. Eventually his friend sighs, and Dean takes that to mean that his ire has receded for the moment. “Well, at least you’re not denying it.” 

 

“Not saying you’re right, though.” 

 

“I’m incredulous with shock.” 

 

“Not speechless, though. There’s a shame.” 

 

Gabriel merely chuckles and shoots Dean an incomprehensible look.

 

“You conflicted bastard,” he murmurs, not unsympathetically. “What are we going to do with you?”

 

* * *

  

By eleven thirty, Dean finds himself at the Starbucks around the corner, facing down his laptop and his hangover and his waning talent with a steely nerve that would impress the Devil himself. He has next to nothing to grade this weekend, and thus has no excuse not to sit down with the more creative side of his brain and smack it around a little. 

 

Dean is well-versed in the evidence of his story’s mediocrity at this point, but he doesn’t have a clue what to do about it. He’s made outlines and characters studies and he’s written in the morning and at three a.m. and drunk and on _insane_ caffeine highs. And nothing has made this steaming, inadequate pile seem any more interesting. 

 

He could give up on it. He probably should. He hasn’t really nailed down the broader message he wants to tell, which is inexcusable, in his opinion. There’s nothing worse than when you read to the end of a story and there’s not a take-home message. It’s just shitty, uninspired words and then you want to punch the author in the face for wasting your goddamned time. Dean doesn’t want to string his readers along only to cut them loose, so he needs to get on point. 

 

Unfortunately, he keeps getting distracted by things. Like the very insistent need to eat and the massive amounts of radioactive pink blush on that barista and the sound of the over-rehearsed corporate transactions and the distinct possibility that he is perhaps not entirely straight. 

 

At least not in terms of Castiel. 

 

He doesn’t know if he’s got it bad, because he doesn’t know what ‘it’ is. But he isn’t dumb. There’s something about Cas. Dean is perfectly, horribly aware of what it does to him when he’s around. He feels the draw of his body, the lure of his presence. He longs to place hands on him, to slide his fingers under his collar, to trace the planes of his back, puzzle out his labyrinth of sinew and bone. His world shifts and he gravitates around Cas, an unwitting satellite. 

 

He acknowledges his desire, but the thing is, he doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want this hanging over him, this bizarre, uncontrollable attraction to someone he barely knows. He doesn’t want what he wants, which is a pretty fucked up way to feel about anything. 

 

And even if he did? Jesus. Dean’s got quite enough experience with what happens when he puts him impulses ahead of his sense, thanks. In his experience, Desire is a twisted motherfucker who comes along to distract you from what really matters. Sexual desire, doubly so. Dean isn’t interested in finding out what else in his life he can fuck up because he can’t keep him urges in check. He’s lost enough, and he has so little left, now. He’s got Sammy, and he’s got Bobby, and he’s got a nice apartment, and if he shares it with the ghosts of everything he’s ever ruined, that’s his business. The point is, he’s got precious little left to guard, and he’ll guard it viciously. 

 

He doesn’t know much about Cas, but he seems like a good guy. Dean knows he’s got a PhD in English, for starters. Gabriel had told him what little he knew about him over breakfast, including that his last name is James and he hates formal titles. Cas moved here from Chicago because didn’t play well with the faculty over there, which Dean finds hard to believe. Bobby had hired him not only out of his admitted desperation but also because of Castiel’s frankness and sense of humor. People tend to like him, and pretty much everyone in the office has thrown their line out there, because Cas is a slamming hottie and everyone in the office has eyes. Dean is pleased it isn’t just him under the spell, but he suspects – and Gabriel agrees – that Dean is unusually bedeviled. 

 

That’s the thing about attraction, though. You can handle that. It’s pretty simple, really. Literally basic. You just lock that shit away. Sexual attraction can be compartmentalized, and fairly easily, from Dean’s experience: he kind of does it a lot. And he likes Cas, likes him well enough to want to be his friend, weird, inappropriate fixation aside. 

 

So he’s sexually attracted to a dude. Fine. He can handle that. Dean can deal. 

 

And Cas never has to know. 

 

Dean’s head still hurts. The first cup of coffee helped, but he thinks he’s gonna need about seven more before he starts to feel remotely human. He caught his reflection in a wall mirror earlier and willed himself to avoid any reflective surfaces for the rest of the weekend. Yeesh. So the question is, does he keep getting coffee here, feeding the multimillion dollar conglomerate beast and feeling intensely scrutinized by the fast-paced public eye? Or does he move on to another locale? Dean’s failing at writing at Starbucks; he knows he is. He keeps thinking about how much he would rather be at that other shop anyway, the one with the funny names and grubby kids. His currently ragged ass would fit in there a lot better than here, and the atmosphere of that place was hella conducive. 

 

And it has nothing to do with the fact that – _coincidentally –_ it’s also where he first ran into Cas. It never even once occurs to him that he might run into him there again. Not even a little. It’s the furthest thing from his mind as he collects his shit and goes to hail a cab.

 

* * *

  

The disgusted old cab driver snatches the money from Dean’s hand. That kind of rudeness hardly seems fair; surely Dean’s not the first guy who’s puked out the window of a moving cab? Dean slams the door unnecessarily hard for good measure. Cab drivers are dicks. He decides then and there that, fuck the risk of city parking, he’s driving his Baby everywhere from now on. 

 

He has a little more luck in hipsterland, which is nice. After five minutes of quietly ruminating on how he’d like that taxi to end up wrecked beyond repair, Dean realized that his story wasn’t entirely without virtue – it just needed a more fucked up ending. If his sailor never managed to raise the schooner, then what was left to him? 

 

He clacks away at his keys, giddy in spite of the horrors he’s wreaking on his characters. Hungover Dean has no sympathy for imaginary seadogs. Hungover Dean takes no prisoners. 

 

When the first text comes, Hungover Dean doesn’t recognize the number.

**1-(789)-555-4673:  I hope you drank enough water when you got home last night. Also I hope you got home alright.**  

 

Dean frowns at his phone. 

 

 **Dean:  I survived. Who is this?**

**1-(773)-555-4673:  Castiel. Gabriel gave me your number. I hope that is not a problem. :/**  

 

Dean privately thinks this is the biggest problem. He adds Cas to his contacts with a quiet thrill because he’s often foolish. 

 

 **Dean: No prob at all. Listen, sorry about how wasted I got last night.**

 

He sets his phone down on his laptop keys and stares at it nervously. Less than a minute later, it sounds. 

 

 **Castiel: I have been out drinking with Gabriel myself. You needn’t apologize. How is your head?**  

 

Dean’s heart throbs pathetically. Cas is such a stand-up guy, Dean could fucking choke on it. He opts for honesty when he should be ending this conversation. 

 

 **Dean: tbh, if you told me you hit it with a bat, I’d buy it.**

 

And then:

**Castiel: I have no such bat.**

**Castiel:  :]**  

 

 _For fuck’s sake._ Dean is livid with himself because he can’t help having wobbly, ludicrous feelings all over the place. They’re everywhere. He’s probably smiling like an idiot and he can’t do shit about it. Here he is, in the place where they met, and he’s _texting Cas_ , and Cas _texted him first_ , and Cas _wants to know how he’s doing._  

 

 **Dean: Would you believe, I’m actually in that café where we first**

Dean pauses and collects himself. _Friends, Winchester. Just bros. Pull yourself together._ He makes liberal use of the backspace key. 

 

 **Dean: funny coincidence, man, I’m actually at the same coffee joint where I first ran into you**

Send. Moments stretch into eternity. Dean fiddles with his chapter outline.

**Castiel: Is that right? Uncanny.**

Dean sighs out loud. He isn’t sure what the actual fuck he thinks he’s doing, but something healthy and involving any kind of self-preservation is not it. He begins his regular ritual of self-blame, and then realizes that for once he can cheerfully blame someone else.

**Dean: Did you give my number to Cas?**  

 **Gabe: You know, I might have done! Whoops.**

Cockbag. Dean changes his name in his phone out of spite. 

 

 **Dean: You sneaky son of a bitch.**

**Gaby Baby: You like it.**

Dean snorts, but doesn’t say dignify that with a response, and besides, there’s no succinct way to say, _Yes_ , my mood has improved drastically but in the long run this is stupid and will only cause everyone involved pain and it’s _all your fault._  

 

There is a lull in texting responses so Dean turns diligently back to his woebegone maritime punching bag. What if sailorface had been placing his manic, obsessive love in the wrong place? A boat can’t love you back. And it definitely can’t unmake your mistakes. Relying on milestones to judge your life without back up plans is the easiest way to self-destruction Dean knows. His own fucked-up daddy had taught him that, and maybe that was something worth sharing. Maybe, just maybe that was a lesson worth teaching, something worth showing to others. Maybe, just maybe, after about another half an hour, his headache should _have fucking abated even just a little_. He contemplates another latte. Gonna have a caffeine problem after today.

“You look about how I feel.” Dean looks up and loses control of his face, just a little. Cas is standing over him, a tired grin on his face, and a steaming bag of something that smells _heavenly_ in his hand. He’s wearing some burnt orange jeans with a tasteful gray sweater and scarf and Dean is startled by the change a wardrobe shift can evoke. He has never cared so much about how clothing hugs a body before. Jaysus. 

 

 _What are you doing here?_ He wants to ask. “You look like hell,” Dean says instead, fully aware that he sounds like his throat has been introduced to a very friendly scrap of sandpaper. Luckily the professor looks a little more than rough around the edges. He’s got bags under his eyes and his complexion is a shade off.  “Christ, is that what I look like?” 

 

“Probably not,” Cas replies blearily, kicking what has clearly become his chair away from the table and flopping down into it. “You probably look devastatingly handsome as always.” He smiles a little weakly at Dean’s obviously fluster. “I’m afraid I’m in no fit state to judge.” 

 

“Late night?” 

 

“You could say that.” 

 

Dean feels a hot stab of irrational jealousy before reminding himself that he had also been out all night, practically _with_ Cas, and also that it’s _none of his damn business_ what Cas gets up to at night.  Suppressing the wave of filthy images that particular thought evokes, Dean nods curiously at the man opposite him. “But what’s in the _box, man_?” 

 

Cas raises his eyebrows. “That is a bag.” 

 

“That was a reference. _Seven_?”

**“** Seven what?” 

 

“Fucking – the movie! You have to have seen it.” 

 

Cas merely smiles benignly at him. “I’m afraid not.” 

 

“Never mind.” Dean shakes his head. “The bag?” 

 

“Ah. Well.” Castiel’s mouth forms into an impish grin and Dean bites the inside of his lip and involuntarily clenches his fist. Lips like that should illegal. “I was feeling a bit hard done by, and you seemed to be as well, so I thought I might bring you something to… _fortify_ our resolve.” 

 

Dean just stares as Cas reaches for the bag. This is impossible. Whatever is happening is impossible. 

 

“I was thinking of foods that are known to aid in recovering from mild alcohol poisoning,” Cas begins. Dean hasn’t spent a lot of time with the guy, but he’s pretty sure Cas is nervous, and it is incredibly fucking adorable, and it’s definitely piquing his curiosity. “Folk remedies tend to involve greasy foods, but it’s rarely the best idea, though protein and carbohydrates are important, and I seemed to remember at the faculty meaning, you mentioned pie.” Cas is rambling and he seems to realize it. Blue eyes glance at Dean’s dropped jaw. He gives a small, tight smile as he opens a container where a pot pie sits, nestled in some deli paper like the Holy fucking Grail. It is the most beautiful, tiny pastry Dean has ever seen. 

 

“I also got a sweet one, cherry, if you want. For dessert.” He pulls more things out of the bag, explaining as he goes, including a bright yellow bunch of bananas (for potassium loss), four hard-boiled eggs (for B vitamins and destroying toxins), and some things called _pelmeni_ , which he blushingly confesses are a childhood comfort food of his. 

 

“They’re, well, they’re just dumplings, but…have you ever had pierogi?” he rasps. “They’re like that. They make me feel better sometimes, after overindulging. I was thinking you also seem the type to drink a lot of coffee to cope, and that can actually make a hangover worse sometimes, so.” He ends with an anticlimactic shrug of his broad shoulders. 

 

Dean, stunned, tries to take it all in. “You…brought me a hangover cure?” 

 

Cas ducks his head a bit, and then he cautiously looks up at Dean. “I did.” 

 

Something warm and insistent and insatiable unfurls itself in Dean’s chest as his mind spins around thoughts like, _Who is this guy, really? How is it possible that there are people this touching, this sincere, this_ bizarre _Ieft in the world? What the fuck is going on?_ Dean doesn’t have a cohesive reaction because honestly? He’s never been faced with the kind of person who would witness him making a complete drunken ass out of himself and bring him dumplings instead of recriminations. 

 

“Cas, man,” he starts and stops, runs a hand shakily through his hair. What do you even say? “I’m really sorry about how wasted I was last night.” That isn’t what you should say. 

 

“I was fairly inebriated myself, Dean.” He gets the impression Cas is trying to catch his eye, but he evades. 

 

“I think I was a little past inebriated.” Dean blanches. He doesn’t deserve… _whatever_ this is. He probably doesn’t even deserve a precious little meat pie. 

 

“Mr. Winchester.” Dean finally looks up, and Cas grins a little, puffy-eyed and pleased with himself. Sneaky bastard.  “ _Tabula rasa_ , all right?” 

 

Green meets blue, as steadily as possible. “Just like that?” 

 

“Just like that.” 

 

“…my mom’s family is Polish.” 

 

Cas barks a startled laugh. “Are you still drunk?” 

 

“Well, her dad’s family is. Polish, I mean, but also drunk, now that you mention it. That branch of the tree is Padalecki, not Winchester. We had pierogi every Easter.” 

 

Cas chuckles, grabbing at his _pel-money_ things. “Then you’ll love these. They’re better.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (They aren’t though. Pierogi are superior. Fuck you, Cas.)


	5. What You Were Once

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Cas throw food at each other. Dean extends a helping hand to someone, and his road of good intentions has a predictable conclusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This picks up on the same day as the last chapter because the scene was too cute to let go of and also because this would have been too heavy otherwise, maybe. Enjoy the fluff. It won't last. (Content warning: panic attack?)

* * *

 

“Fantasy?”

 

“Come on.”

 

“Dystopian sci fi?”

 

“Done to death.”

 

Castiel quirks an eyebrow. “Erotica?”

 

Dean thinks no one should be allowed to say _erotica_ with that voice. Or those eyebrows. Or those eyes. “Let us keep a civil tongue,” he says, which is the wrong thing because Castiel just _smirks_ at him, all bedhead and promises, and Dean has to take a moment to focus the tremble out of his everything. “You know what I mean.”

 

“Hmm. So answer the question,” Castiel replies. Dean suspects he might have liked the authoritative tone of his voice in another context.

 

“I write lots of things,” he says exasperatedly, subconsciously jostling his knee under the table. “I don’t know if this thing is…representative.” Dean studies Cas, who's squinting shrewdly at the laptop where it sits beside them on the table. He snatches it off the table and stuffs it away. “It’s maritime fiction, I guess? I usually write some kind of fiction. Metaphysical shit. Big pictures. You know.”

 

“Cerebral, introspective stuff,” Cas murmurs, nodding through Dean’s helpless shrug. “On boats. I can get behind that.” He upends a banana from the pile of rustled-through foodstuffs on the table and waves it unceremoniously in Dean’s face. “You know, it’s easiest to open bananas this way, by squeezing the bottom. It splits easily. This is the way apes do it in the wild.” He gives a tight, proud little smile and Dean’s heart does a pathetic flump in his chest. “Your turn.”

 

At some point amid the awkward shuffling of meat pies, Dean had declared that he knew too little about his new friend and demanded that Cas tell him something, anything he didn’t know about him. Cas couldn’t come up with a single interesting fact or anecdote on his own. Dean had teased him furiously over it until Cas exasperatedly suggested that Dean just _ask_ him a question, if he was so deadset on learning trivial crap. Which is how they’d ended up trading particulars for the better part of forty minutes. So far Cas had learned that Dean’s allergic to shellfish, likes the sound of rain, doesn’t gamble, has one cousin he’s never met, and loves some Vonnegut. What Cas interpreted from that, Dean doesn’t know.

 

But he’s learned a lot about Castiel James. Cas is a little contentious, a lot curious, and adamantly just.  He dislikes cephalopods and being told what to do. He likes red meat and social change. When Dean made another movie joke – a _Star Wars reference, no less –_ that Cas completely failed to recognize, Dean pressed the issue until he found out that Cas was never exposed to a lot of visual media, in childhood or beyond, which forced Dean to declare himself in charge of Cas’ pop culture education from that moment on. The more he learns, the more he realizes he doesn’t know; there’s so much untapped Casness that Dean’s genuinely lost in terms of finding a good question to ask. So he blandly goes, “What your favorite color?”

 

Cas’ answering chuckle is knowing. “I like charcoal gray.”

 

“Mmm. I prefer black and blue. I’m a bruiser.” He winks. “Your turn.”

 

“Why didn’t you get your PhD?”

 

“Because I’ve never said anything worth defending.”

 

That startles a laugh out of his tablemate. “You’ve a knack for expression.”

 

“Thanks. Do you have any siblings?”

 

“Not as far as I know. I was in foster care until I was four, and I was raised by adoptive parents,” Cas says unflinchingly. _Smooth, Dean,_ he winces to himself, but Cas seems at ease. “You?”

 

“Just the baby brother I mentioned before.”

 

“Sam, right? What’s he like?”

 

He smiles a little without fully meaning to. “Big time lawyer, size of a truck, heart to match.”

 

“Married?”

 

“Oh, hell no. Sammy’s got the worst luck of any person I’ve ever met, in love or otherwise. He spills a drink at every restaurant he goes to. He’s been in five fender-benders, none his fault. He always ends up dating kleptomaniacs or accidentally hitting on his bosses.” Dean laughs suddenly. “Oh! One time, he literally lost his shoe while walking down the street. I think the universe had to take his poise to make up for his huge brain.”

 

When he looks up, Cas is smiling warmly at him. “You’re very proud of him.”

 

“Can’t deny that,” he replies, shifting uncomfortably. “He’s the one thing I did right.” The statement comes out like a knee jerk reaction, too true and too honest and too revealing, and he wishes he could take it back, even before he hears Castiel’s murmured response.

 

“The one thing? You think you’ve only done one thing right in your life?”

 

Dean laugh is too gruff, sharper than the moment calls for. “Can’t exactly take credit for my own genetics, can I?” _Good save, Winchester._

 

“I’m dissatisfied with that response.”

 

“Come on, man, I’m just messing around.”

 

Cas continues to stare at him, eyes bright and searching, and damn if that isn’t the quickest lesson Dean is learning about the discomfiting Professor James. He brooks no bullshit, outspoken to a dangerous fault. If he weren’t so endearingly resistant to niceties in general, one might call him confrontational. Usually it was adorable, but at this moment Dean kind of wishes Cas had a little more patience for social graces. It’s not that he doesn’t know when people want him to let things go. He’s aware. Honey badger just don’t give a fuck.

 

“I may not know you well, Dean, so I apologize for my abruptness. But that’s several times this afternoon _alone_ that you’ve deflected using self-deprecation. I think you might do well to be a little gentler with yourself,” Cas says evenly. “Forgive me if I’ve crossed a line. It is my turn to ask now, isn’t it?”

 

“Yeah,” Dean replies warily, still processing Cas’ words. He’s not sure he’s ready for the inquisition to keep rolling.

 

Cas grins impishly at him. “Do you have any embarrassing nicknames?”

 

Relieved at the change in subject, Dean huffs dramatically. “Oh, no. You’re not gettin’ that out of me.”

 

The cherry pot pie appears in Castiel’s hands. “Are you sure? I can be persuasive.”

 

“I’ll bet.” Dean sighs, ignoring the fluttering that manifests somewhere in his gut. Castiel eyes narrow playfully, knowingly, and Dean charges on defiantly. “When I was in college…”

 

“Go on,” Cas says, waving the pie around suggestively, fingers of his opposite hand dropping down to caress a plastic knife.

 

“When I was in college, I developed a bit of a… _reputation._ For, uh. My social skills.”

 

“Dean, are you trying to say you were a libertine?”

 

“I would be, if anyone in this century ever used the word _libertine_ ,” he teases. “Anyway, every time my buddies and I would go out, they’d, uh.” Dean rubs the back of his neck, looking away shiftily, voice coming out in a husky rush. “They’d call me the Hunter. ‘Cause…’cause I was on the prowl.”

 

He thought Cas would laugh, and he was right. There’s something freer and more innocent in Castiel’s face in the rising tide of mirth that he seems unable to curb, stammering out an occasional _I can’t even_ and _Your face_ between gasps.

 

Dean can feel said face reaching critical redness and slams the rest of his coffee. “Do me a favor and shut your mouth.”

 

Still chuckling, Cas hands the cherry pie over, and he giggles – actually _giggles –_ when Dean snatches it away possessively. “The entire English department in Chicago called me Angel behind my back.”

 

The confession is sudden and Dean recognizes the olive branch. “Why?”

 

“Something to do with my personality and penchant for wrathful outbursts,” he says blithely. “And maybe the one night I got drunk at the Christmas party and made out with the department head’s secretary.” He narrows his eyes at Dean very seriously. “My descent into debauchery proved too perfect a metaphor for my colleagues. They like their Milton, you see.”

 

“Naturally.”

 

“Of course, I then climbed the Christmas tree in an attempt to free the golden angel on the top, so that might have something to do with it.”

 

Dean’s mouth works silently for a moment. “So what happened?”

 

His eyebrows lift dramatically. “Naturally, I _fell_.”

 

Sweet, sweet retribution. Dean cackles until Cas is blushing through his bashful grin and chucking pelmeni at him. One almost nails him in the eye, and when he loudly objects, Cas reaches forward and chastises him with a boop on the nose.

 

“You’re easy to fluster,” Castiel observes.

 

“You just booped my nose!” Damn right, he’s flustered, because _who the fuck adorably boops someone_. Whether he’s more bothered by the cuteness or casual intimacy of the gesture, Dean’s not really sure.

 

“Indeed,” Cas says simply. Privately, Dean thinks he looks a little smug. Even more privately, he thinks it’s a damn good look on him. He suppresses that thought with a visible flinch.

 

“Are you alright?” he asks with genuine concern. Dean looks at him, and the wealth of affection is staggering.

 

He’s pretty far from alright, but he’s going to learn to be.

 

* * *

 

Dean taps his pen thoughtfully against his lip, feeling too ponderous for a Monday morning. The last twenty minutes of every one of his creative writing classes is devoted to free writing, as a head start on their next assignment, if they liked, or whatever else his students wanted to work on. It also happens to give him a chance to hand back the critiqued homework and answer the short murmured questions that always come up so he doesn’t get swarmed with curious, indignant undergrads as soon as class ends. His eyes trip across the bent heads and scratching pencils of the more familiar kids and search for one he knows less well: a girl, one of the brunettes, long hair, he thinks. He stalls on one in particular and finally decides that this is the Casey he’s looking for. She’s taller than average; he’s pretty sure it’s her. He glances down at the assignment under his fingers again and grimaces before scrawling a quick note in red in the top corner.

 

He stands up and moves around the room, handing back papers and sneakily looming over shoulders. Most students glance at him apprehensively, though some make teasing faces at him or hunch dramatically over their work. There are a few questions here and there about his notes, as expected; skittish little Kevin quietly inquires as to his office hours while staring damningly at his suggestions. Eventually Dean stops at the young woman he noticed before and leans down.

 

“Casey?”

 

She startles and he immediately feels like a dick for spooking her. “Uh.”

 

“Just making sure.” He smiles reassuringly and sets her assignment on the corner of her desk, tapping his note for emphasis. Her lips move as she reads.

 

_Please see me after class?_

 

She nods once, so Dean moves on, not wanting to crowd her or make her any more nervous than he already did. He finishes delivering pages just as it’s time to dismiss the horde, giving himself a mental fist bump for timing as he ties up his remarks.

 

“And please feel free to drop by my office hours. I don’t hold them for my own benefit. I’d much rather be at home playing video games, too, so don’t waste my time. I give it to you freely. All right, get out of here. Mush!”

 

When everyone’s filed out of the room, he stops attempting to look busy with his briefcase and looks up to find Casey hovering awkwardly a few feet from him. Dean reads apprehension but no real fear in her expression; there’s a certain pride in her bearing that Dean finds intriguing, given the circumstances.

 

“So,” she says, adjusting her backpack on one shoulder. “You wanted to see me?”

 

“It’s Casey, right?” Another short nod. “Well, Casey, to be totally honest with you, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about the subject matter of your assignments.”

 

The space between her eyebrows pinches together briefly before she does a damn impressive job of collecting herself. “Was it inappropriate? I thought there was a chance it was too personal or –  ”

 

“No, no, nothing like that,” Dean says gently. “No one appreciates it more than me when students engage with their assignments on a real level. Who wants to read a bunch of uninvolved crap? Go right ahead and form a more profound bond with your written word. Everyone involved gets more out of this experience that way.”

 

She looks a little mollified but still guarded, so Dean changes tacks with all of his usual subtlety. “I could sure go for some coffee,” he abruptly announces. Casey blinks at his arm as it arcs toward the door. “Walk with me a moment?”

 

It’s a tactic he’s shamelessly stolen from Bobby, actually, a relic from his teen years. Bobby found – and Dean agreed – that folks tend to prefer to open up when you’re walking at their side rather than staring ‘em down. Every fractured iota of emotion the gruff old bastard had managed to wring out of him, few and far between though they were, slipped out of him in a slow turn around the old farmhouse, beer in hand and Bobby at his elbow. Beer wasn’t really an option at present, but Dean hopes coffee’ll manage in its stead. They swing by the cramped university café kiosk near the entrance of the building and Dean purchases two underbrewed and overpriced cups to go. Casey looks a little embarrassed, but she pushes her long brown hair over her shoulder and accepts with better grace than Dean would have.

 

They’re crunching through the first few fallen leaves of the season, having spent a comfortable minute or so complaining about the quality of campus food in general, before Dean broaches.

 

“So, I gotta tell you, I’m a little concerned with the tone your writing takes,” Dean says carefully, “when you’re talking about yourself.” He glances over briefly, but the girl – woman, he corrects himself – stares stonily forward. “You got any idea what I might mean?”

 

“Not really,” she hedges. Dean pulls a face and wishes Sam was around; he’s got the touchy-feely, spill-your-guts crap on lock.

 

“Casey, I don’t want to invade your personal mindspace or anything. But you know, the way you write about yourself? Or about your _unnamed narrators_? I’m concerned about it.”

 

“Those are just stories.”

 

“Are they?”

 

“Yes.” Her voice is defiant and young and it makes him _want_ things.

 

“Well, so are you.” The look she gives him is a triumph of baffled incomprehension. He takes a sip of his terrible coffee. “And so am I. Don’t stand here and tell me stories aren’t important. Convince someone else writers don’t put themselves in everything they do, ‘cause you can bet the farm it’ll be a hard sell to your _creative writing teacher_.” He moves quickly to stand right in front of her, playfully forcing her to stop in her tracks. “Look me square in the eye and tell me those stories have nothing to do with you. And I will _know_ if you’re lying, I’m a very good judge of these things.”

 

She smiles a little but neither looks at him nor says anything.

 

“Good,” he says with mock solemnity. “We’re in the right neighborhood, at least.” He falls into step beside her again. “Seriously, though, I think the way you see yourself might suck a little.”

 

Her disarmed incredulity is profound. “You want to sugar coat that at all?”

 

“Apparently not.” He smiles gently, though, knowing he can come off a little dickish. “You want me to go into specifics? _Lana doesn’t know how to express it; Lana doesn’t know how to express anything but her own inadequacy._ Ringing any bells?”

 

Casey huffs, but she smiles ruefully, just a little. “God, stop it! It sounds worse out loud. You’re making me sound depressed.” Her face tightens almost imperceptibly. “I know depression, and this isn’t it.”

 

“I’m not saying it is. Look, I don’t know your life, I don’t know what you’re going through, or what you’ve been through, or whatever else. But the quiet, angry things you think about yourself?” She finally meets his eyes then, startled. “They’re not fair. That critic in you, she’s wrong. And you deserve better than that.”

 

When they reach his office building he stops to say goodbye, asks her to think about what he’s said, and casually mentions the “emotional consultations” the university health center offers in passing as well.

 

“I mean, since you’re already paying for them with your tuition, could be nice to talk to someone. No pressure or anything. All I’m trying to say is, I don’t know exactly where you are, but I’m here, if you ever need to talk. And for the record, I might’ve been around that block a couple times.” Dean laughs uncomfortably. “Just think about it?”

 

She looks unconvinced, but she nods. “I'll think about it. I promise.”

 

“I’m glad.” He shoots her a brief, commiserating grin before turning to climb the stairs, feeling lighter than he’d felt in ages.

 

That might have actually gone alright.

 

* * *

 

It’s the smell of an autumn well under way, in the wake of a chilling rainfall. It’s woodsy. It smells of fallen leaves and gently rotting branches. Dean can taste the rain in the back of his throat. He can always taste the rain in Washington. It makes him miss the Midwest, maybe. The amber lights of a Tuesday night glimmer off the still-wet trees and dark street signs, the occasional headlights shifting the shadows and setting Dean vaguely on edge. It’s unpleasant.

 

He checks his watch and the 9:03 glows up at him accusatorily. Shit. He’s already late and he knows Victor isn’t going to appreciate his tardiness. Dude hates waiting. Especially to hit things.

 

Preoccupied by getting punched by an annoyed and well-muscled southpaw detective, it takes Dean a moment to register what he’s hearing over the faint sound of traffic, wet tires on pavement and quiet brakes squealing.

 

“…don’t care what you think about it, it’s not any of your damn business.” A woman’s voice echoes, angry and brittle.

 

“…not your _boyfriend’s_ business where you’ve been?” The second is a guy, loud and apparently scandalized.

 

“…my own person! And we already...” The voices carry in and out, borne on the wind and rising emotions. Dean finally sees the two of them further down on the sidewalk and feels a distinct pang of discomfort. Somehow the awkward shit always seems to find him.

 

From what little snippets he’s getting as he heads in their direction, he starts to pick up on the fact that this guy is some kind of hugely controlling douchecanoe, the girl is not interested in his bullshit, and Dean cannot possibly avoid walking right by their argument. When it starts to get heated and the dude’s gestures start to get a little wild, Dean actually slows his pace, making damn sure he doesn’t pass her by and leave her vulnerable.

 

When he gets within twenty yards, he realizes the girl looks familiar for a reason.

 

It’s the girl from his creative writing class. Casey.

 

Son of a bitch.

 

“So, it’s just over now? Like we’re supposed to move the fuck on?” The guy advances on her with a violent motion. Dean’s feet pick up speed without conscious effort. “Like I’m not the best thing you’ll ever have? You were _nothing_ when you met me.” He grabs her shoulders then, and Dean’s close enough to hear her gasp. “We complete each other. You can’t do this.”

 

“I’m pretty sure she can do whatever she wants,” a voice snarls, and Dean realizes only a split second later that it’s his. Right on top of them now, a breath from arm’s reach, he gives the ex a once-over – around 6 foot, lean, probably only around 170 pounds max – before fixing his eyes on his student, gauging her reaction. She squirms against the hands fisted in her jacket. “Maybe you want to step back out of her face right now.”

 

“Maybe you want to make me?”

 

The smile twists nastily across his face. “Maybe I do.”

 

The boyfriend has the sense to look shaken, whether by his certainty or his tone or his probably-very-fucked-up smirk, Dean doesn’t know. A few tense seconds pass before hands drop as he inches away from Casey.

 

“I don’t want any trouble,” the guy says at last, defiant but with obvious tension. Dean wants to laugh, except that that’s the absolute last thing he feels like doing.

 

“Obviously you want trouble. But you want it from her. You want it on your terms.” Dean steps forward, right up into the other man’s face. He can feel his breath on his face, and he’s perversely proud of the quickened inhalations. “But your trouble is on my terms now, buddy.”

 

He stumbles back from the darkness in Dean’s voice. “I’m not your buddy.”

 

 “I’ll find a way to press on. And you’ll find a way out of here, if you know what’s good for you.”

 

With a dark last look at Casey, the kid beats a hasty retreat. Dean watches him go until he’s positive he’s rabbited for good before he rounds on Casey, who is flushed a dark red an isn’t making eye contact with him.

 

“Mr. Winchester,” she says, voice valiantly straining to be casual and ending up in the terrible precarious place women end up that’s too close to tears and makes Dean want to run away. “I don’t even… just. Uh. Thank - ”

 

“Knock that off,” Dean snaps. “I don’t want your thanks, kid.” He knows he shouldn’t be taking this out on her, but he’s pissed and there’s something else there, something in this situation that’s resonating with him in a bad way. Something on the edges of his mental periphery, something he’s not letting himself look at.

 

“Thank you, anyway,” she says stubbornly. Dean rolls his eyes. In the back of his head, something stirs, off. Wrong. Familiar.

 

“Were you on your way to your car?” She nods at the Civic beside them. “Good. Okay. Look, I don’t want to be presumptuous, but that right there? That was some fucked up shit, miss.”

 

She sighs. “I know. I was trying to end it. But I was failing.”

 

“Are you – fuck!” Dean snaps, and she looks startled. “See, that’s it. Right there. That’s your problem above all things. You can’t even give yourself a gold star for trying?” He laughs and cards a hand through his hair and feels something ugly in the pit of his stomach that he knows and doesn’t know all at once. “You can’t predict how people are going to react, but you were trying. That’s what matters. It’s all about the fight.”

 

“Yeah, I know,” she replies, a little snappish herself. “I’m the one fighting, remember?”

 

“You say you know, but you don’t. You expect too much of yourself. That harsh critic inside you, the one that points out every mistake?” He points a finger right in her face, and he doesn’t care that it’s rude. “That fucker’s got to go. The world is going to be shitty enough to you. You’re going to meet people and be in situations that drag you down. You don’t need to do it to yourself, too.”

 

Something nags at him still, but he blows out a frustrated huff and looks her square in the eye. “Alright, enough of this touchy feely crap. But remember that you really do deserve better.”

 

“Thanks, Captain Optimism,” she sasses as he turns to walk away.

 

“And that asshole?” He shoots back over his shoulder. “You deserve better than him, too.”

 

He watches out of the corner of his eye to make sure she gets in her car and pulls away before pulling out his phone and shooting a quick text to Victor to make sure he stays put. Dean’s on his way.

 

And something is thrumming under his skin, and he really, really wants to hit things.

 

* * *

 

**Breathe in.**

“Keep that back hand up by your jaw, Winchester,” someone suggests loudly. Dean ignores the hot squirm in his stomach.

**Eyes on clavicle.**

**Unfocus.**

**Rely on the periphery.**

The anticipation isn’t as pleasant as usual. He’s preoccupied.

**Trust the body.**

Dean does his best to let go.

**Breathe out.**

Someone blows a whistle.

**Move.**

****

_“So, it’s just over now? Like we’re supposed to move the fuck on?”_

 

Dean falters and almost catches a hook to the jaw. Fucking kids putting him in a dark headspace. He fades back, tells himself to clear his head.

**Don’t think.**

**Opponent shifts. Adjust accordingly.**

**Don’t drop your hands.**

 

_“So what, we’re through?” Ice blue eyes glint dangerously at him. “Just like that? After everything we’ve been through?” Benny’s face is a perfect blend of betrayed and incredulous and he advances on his – Dean doesn’t even know what he is. He never knew what this was, except fucked up._

 

**No. Stop that.**

**Muscles engaging in front shoulder, gonna be a jab. Sway back, counter.**

 

_“Like I’m not the best thing you’ll ever have?”_

 

**Duck.**

**Sway back.**

**Hands up.**

_“You think there’s someone else out there for you?” Benny chuckles humorlessly. Dean’s stomach clenches and he can’t meet his eyes, backing uneasily away from the busted up POS that means so many secret things to him. “I’ve been there for you through – all of this! Your dad!”_

_Dean flinches. He doesn’t want to talk about that, remember it anymore. It’s been months, Dean can be over it. When Benny speaks again, it’s pleading. “Come on, asshole, it’s always gonna be you and me.”_

**Too many, too fast, put up a guard. Eat ‘em.**

**Regroup.**

_He’s sobbing hysterically against Benny’s shoulder, and he knows it isn’t manly, and he can’t give a fuck. He shouldn’t cry in front of his…whatever Benny is. Guy he makes out with sometimes._

_“It’s my fault, Benny,” he whimpers, and Benny pats him on the back. The gesture’s profoundly unrewarding._

_His dad is gone. John is dead. Dean wasn’t there. He hurts everywhere._

_He feels_ relieved _, and that makes him suddenly sick on Benny’s boots._

_“He’s gone, Benny.” A whisper at most._

_It’s Dean’s seventeenth birthday._

_“You’ve got me now,” Benny rumbles at him, and Dean finally accepts his possessive streak, needs it with stupid desperation. “I’m your family now, Winchester.”_

 

**Opening, press forward, press, press, one-two, jab ‘til he opens up, cross.**

_“You were nothing when you met me.”_

**Get out, move your feet, breathe, don’t drop your hands.**

_He recognizes obliquely that it’s dangerously cold to be outside, but he’s so far past caring that it isn’t funny, tugging his letterman jacket closer to his body. He can’t see for the tears in his eyes, but damned if he was gonna cry for that old bastard._

_There is a telltale grinding crunch of tires on gravel and Dean throws a vicious glare over his shoulder. It isn’t the Impala, though. A battered old pick-up rolls up beside him on the road. Curiosity gets the better of him as the driver leans over and cranks down the window._

**Wait him out.**

**Stay light.**

_“Cold out there,” a steady, unfamiliar accent tells him, and there’s a question in it. Dean squints against the biting wind. A scruffy, friendly face warms half a grin at him, someone he’s seen at school but doesn’t know by name. He hesitates only a moment before recklessly climbing into essentially a stranger’s vehicle._

**Advance.**

**Fake him low, jab-cross-hook.**

**Breathe.**

_“I don’t know if I…”_

_“You don’t have to,” he says, dropping his hands from Dean’s jawline. “If it doesn’t feel right, we can just – ”_

_“It_ does _feel right,” Dean blurts out, sudden and insistent. He flushes and feels his sixteen years in ways he never has before. He feels his age. “But it shouldn’t, you know?”_

_“Yeah,” Benny drawls. He trails one finger over the stubble Dean’s so proudly cultivating, and they both shiver. “It’s ain’t right. For guys, I mean, it’s wrong. We shouldn’t want to.” He moves forward then, just a little, crowding Dean against the shadowy side of his father’s toolshed. “But you know, you and I are kind of wrong no matter how we cut it.”_

**Heart pounding, whoa.**

**Back out to breathe.**

_“I think we’re both damned, you and me. That’s why we fit just right.” The words send a sick thrill through his belly and he presses against Benny’s lip and his hands come up to -_

**Opponent follows. Shake him.**

_“I believed in you, you son of a  -_

**Breathe.**

 

_“You can’t do this.” This probably isn’t the conversation Benny was expecting when he got off his shift at the diner, but Dean has to stop feeling guilty and -_

 

**Block, sway back, dodge, _move back._**

_“…we have to stop…” The whisper comes out pained, between clenched teeth, but he either doesn’t know or doesn’t care how much this is -_

**Breathe.**

 

_“Please don’t do this.” Dean shakes his head rapidly, like he can shake the -_

 

**More coming, faster now. Block, cover, back up, _get out._**

 

_“Not to us. Not to me.” Benny lurches toward him with his hand -_

 

**Too many strikes, get out of there. Get out, move, get away, get back.**

 

_“Don’t you fucking leave me, Dean Winchester.”_

 

**Cover no fuck move back _get out of there Dean move just get out -_**

“Time!” Dean screams around his mouthguard, voice raw and shaking, chest heaving.

 

Victor drops his hands immediately and spits his brace into his hands. Their group of onlookers murmur and Dean can’t make it out. Everything is suddenly overbearing.

 

“Hey man, you alright?” He steps towards Dean, who answers by flinching visibly. His heart is racing and he feels light-headed and the lights are too bright and his hands are shaking and it’s only getting worse, not better, the longer he just stands there.

 

“Yeah,” he croaks. “I just…I’m tired, man, I gotta roll.”

 

“Dean, wait!” Victor says, but he’s already swung under the ropes of the ring and he’s charging toward the locker room. In a heated daze he smashes his key into his locker, grabs his gear, and slams out of the room before anyone can catch him or see him or touch him or do anything.

 

He just needs air, probably.

 

Which makes him sprint full-tilt into the unlit park across the street.

 

By the time he finds a dark enough tree to properly collapse under, his mind is a clusterfuck, spinning and churning and doing all kinds of things he doesn’t understand.

 

It’s like an infinite loop of every mistake he’s ever made and every opportunity he’d ever let slip by and every lie he’s ever told and every moment he’s ever regretted. He tries to calm himself down with measured breathing but he can’t really _breathe_.

 

He tries hard to be rational while his shaking hands fumble with his phone and parse through his contacts diligently, but the truth is, with his thoughts going a mile a minute and not doing him a lick of good, he needs help, and it fills him with rage. Because he shouldn’t need help, not this fucking maudlin emotional help. If he were strong, this wouldn’t be happening. He wouldn’t have lost all fucking control of his goddamned body and his goddamned mind. He’s a big, needy mess and he needs a shoulder to rely on and the only shoulders he’s got are his own and they’re currently heaving uncontrollably.

 

He tamps down the voice in his head that is occasionally screeching _OH MY GOD I AM ACTUALLY DYING THIS IS WHAT DYING FEELS LIKE_ and tries admirably to get a grip on himself. He has to call someone. That is the thing you do in emergencies. Call a person. Someone who he can trust with the knowledge that he’s a gelatinous pile of feelings, someone who won’t let him down.

 

The problem is, there’s no one who has never let Dean down.

 

And to be honest, he can’t bring himself even close to blaming them.

 

His hands shake as he presses the little green button, and he waits on the only person who can ever be allowed to see him like this with hopeless panic as the phone rings once, twice, three times, _four times oh fucking no please, five_ –

 

“Hey, man!”

 

“Sammy.” His voice wavers uncontrollably. Gelatinous pile. “Oh, thank God.”

 

“Dean?” Sam’s voice goes instantly into its most concerned timbre. “What’s going on?”

 

“Sammy. Sammy, I’m dying of feelings under a tree.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this chapter is worth the wait. Also, a lot of things happened in this chapter and I tried to handle them as gracefully as possible, which contributes to the waiting. (Guys, I love Benny. I love him so, so much. I am so very sorry for this, fellow Bennyfans.) TItle is from Whispers in the Dark by Mumford and Sons, which is definitely the soundtrack for this chapter.
> 
> As always, come bother me at my [tumblr](http://trustdreams.tumblr.com).


	6. This Lie is Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-panic attack, Dean can't pretend he doesn't have a lot of emotions anymore. Sam mediates Dean's recovery with pizza and video games.

* * *

 

_It’s his favorite place in the world, but it’s different at night. The house creaks ominously around him, all wooden whispers, and it shakes the shadow-things in his head. Dean trembles a little. He knows he shouldn’t. Big boys don’t do that; he’ll get in trouble. Of course, he’ll get in trouble if Dad finds out he’s listening at doors again, but sometimes rules are stupid, and sometimes grown-ups don’t tell you anything at all._

_Big green eyes peek through the crack of the kitchen door where Dean leans against the frame, face pressed as hard to the old wood as his seven years can manage. Uncle Bobby is the best, but his house keeps secrets. He wishes they could stay longer. He hopes they don’t._

_“It wasn’t your fault.” Uncle Bobby’s grumbly voice sounds sleepy and sad, but Dean can’t see him so he doesn’t know for sure._

 

_“I should’ve saved her,” his dad whispers into his bottle._

_“Mary?” Uncle Bobby sounds surprised and nervous, like Dean feels when they go to a new place and a new school and he has to talk about himself in front of_ everyone _. “John - ”_

_“It was on me. I should’ve saved her,” he mutters again, and Dean realizes what they’re talking about. He should go. Instead, his chubby little fingers strain on the doorknob, tears already starting to tumble shamefully down his face. He bites his lip and rubs them away with an angry fist. Big boys. “I was there, Bobby. I let her go back for the kid. I was there, and I didn’t fucking stop her.”_

_“It wasn’t your job to save her, John,” Dean hears Uncle Bobby snap out of his line of sight. “It wasn’t anybody’s damn job. And the fire wasn’t anybody’s fault. Fires happen and you just - ”_

_“No!” The force of John’s glare is terrifying and Dean wants to run from it, he_ should _run, but his legs aren’t working right. John stands and slams his hands on the table. “Don’t you fucking dare, you son of a bitch. My wife didn’t deserve to die.” The bottle rattles, crashes to the ground and Dean shakes through the splintering noise, Bobby’s growled curses, and the sour, familar smell of his father’s drink. “Someone should’ve saved her, Bobby. But she’s gone. And she’s not coming back.”_

_And Dean’s legs finally move then, all at once, stumbly and not right. He remembers how to run, fast as his little legs can carry him. He doesn’t want to listen to grown-ups anymore. He doesn’t want to hear anything anymore, and he runs and runs and runs._

_He’s halfway across the neighborhood and farther than he’s ever been without his daddy, but he can’t get away from it. No matter how far he gets, he can still hear his father’s voice, over and over again, like a record when the point catches and the music freezes._

_Someone should’ve saved her._

_I was there._

_Someone should’ve saved her._

 

“You still in there?”

 

Dean blinks, eyes crossing automatically to focus on Sam’s hand, waving an inch in front of his face.

 

“Alright. Conscious. Deeply ashamed.”

 

“You had a panic attack. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

 

Sam hands him a mug of cocoa, which Dean snatches from him with equal measures of grace and spite.

 

“Oh, look, and now my brother’s a fucking shrink.”

 

“You’ve seen some shit in your day, Dean. Sometimes it creeps back.” Sam grabs his own cup and sprawls onto the floor in front of the couch, long limbs gangling in the way of everything. “The fact that you’ve seen more shit than most just shows how much you’re capable of enduring.”

 

“For instance, I can endure your complete inability to play MarioKart.”

 

“Money where your mouth is, Dean,” Sam retorts, chucking a controller at him.

 

Dean likes Sam’s apartment. It’s not as nice as his, which is funny because Sam definitely stacks more paper than him. Then again, Sam did go to Stanford Law and he did start his own firm, so Dean figures he probably still has a few financial obligations to clear out. But Dean likes the place. It’s a little shabby and a little drafty and it has tacky orange fixtures right out of the 70’s and a sweet-ass creaky balcony.

 

Dean may or may not made use of the access to fresh air every twenty minutes or so since he arrived, to his own consternation, but he seems to have leveled out some. So now he and his finely educated baby brother are playing video games, because it’s the only proper way for men to deal with their emotions.

 

“So are we gonna talk about the why?” Sam eventually asks, face screwed up in concentration as he viciously shakes his controller. “Oh, come on!”

 

“Why you suck at Rainbow Road? Probably has something to do with you falling off the track all the damn time.”

 

“Ha ha,” Sam says tonelessly. “Very evasive. I _might_ have meant the whole anxiety scenario.”

 

Before Dean can come up with another snappy way to skirt the issue, Sam looks at him over his shoulder. “It’s me, Dean,” he urges, hushed and serious to an inappropriate degree. “It’s Sammy.”

 

Pulling the _Sammy_ card is wildly unfair and he knows it and Dean hates him for it and Dean loves him for everything else he is, so of course he sighs _just so_ and Sam _knows immediately_ that he has him. Bastard doesn’t even have to use puppy-dog eyes anymore. He’s got puppy-voice, which Dean thinks is unfortunate for a man his age. He’s on the cusp of mentioning that, but he knows Sam needs him to be honest, and on some level Dean knows that _he_ needs this, too.

 

“Vulnerability is weird, Sam.” It’s a weird, abrupt place to settle, but he’s got to start somewhere.

 

“…that it is, Dean.”

 

“Every instinct in me tells me to run from it, you know? Because who needs this angsty kumbayah crap?” He pauses briefly to cackle as Sam’s kart slips on a banana peel. “But logically, like, I get it. It’s like I was telling that girl, you know?”

 

“Your student?”

 

“Yeah. I was giving her all this advice, about finding someone to talk to, and how to reach out, and how there’s no shame in needing a little help working through your shit, you know? And here I am,” he finishes lamely.

 

“Yeah, here you are. What’s the problem with where you are?”

 

“You don’t think I’m a giant hypocritical bucket of bullshit, having panic attacks because I can’t punch my past away?”

 

“I’m actually impressed. You’re so close to actually talking about your feelings, I could pee.” Sam curses, throwing down his controller in disgust. He looks up at Dean from his pile of limbs. “Guess it’s hard to avoid when they literally attack you.”

 

“Kind of took the shine off of the evening, yeah.”

 

“Pizza?”

 

Dean blinks at the non sequitor. Pizza had always been their sort of secret comfort food, something they ordered when everything seemed bad, something to do with their hands when they were a little lost with where else to put them. “Pizza,” he agrees quietly, watching Sam launch himself off the floor towards his cell, wondering at his baby brother’s ability to get under his skin for what feels like the millionth time. He tries to accept the gesture with quiet gratitude. Mostly.

 

“Better not be any vegetables on that,” he hollers at Sam’s back.

 

* * *

 

“Pizza is like pie,” Dean announces dreamily, “but thinner and with attitude.”

 

“You’re a man obsessed,” Sam replies with fond exasperation.

 

“There are few things worth throwing yourself on the altar of indignity for, Sammy, and pie is one of them.”

 

“It’s good to know where your priorities lie.” Sam shoots a quick, nervous glance at his brother before clearing his throat and shifting his shoulders a bit. “So. Uh. About vulnerability.”

 

“Wow,” Dean says around a mouth full of pizza. “Nice segue.”

 

“You’re the wordsmith in this family,” he replies thickly. “So, you struggle with being vulnerable.”

 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Doesn’t everyone?”

 

“Sure, probably, to a certain degree.” Sam points a long, lawyerly finger in his face. “But this isn’t about everyone, so stop changing the subject.” Dean snorts but offers no further commentary, so Sam plunges on. “Do you have…where does that come from, you think?”

 

“Seriously, Sam?” Dean struggles not to roll his eyes again. He fails. “How the fuck should I know that? Jesus.”

 

“You want to try applying some critical thinking skills?”

 

“I don’t _want_ to talk about this at all.”

 

“ _Dean._ This is important.”

 

Sam’s voice has a sharpish quality, and Dean is reminded forcefully of the mother Sam never had a chance to meet. He’s surprised how proud it makes him feel. “I know! I know! I’m here, I haven’t noogied you even once, I’m engaged. Jesus.”

 

“You better be.” Sam runs a hand through his hair. “Well, what about mom?”

 

Dean doesn’t quite mask his flinch. _Uncanny, nerdy gigantor._ “What about her?” Sam sighs. “ _What?_ ”

 

“You ever heard of survivor’s guilt? It’s this thing where if you, like, lose someone in a horrible accident, but you’re left behind - ”

 

“I know what survivor’s guilt is, Sam.” Dean snags Sam’s pizza crust off of his plate and dips it in garlic sauce. “And yeah, it’s not…wrong, exactly,” he adds uncomfortably. “But I’m pretty sure I wasn’t thinking about Mom today.”

 

“I’m talking more of a big picture thing, though.” When Dean just stares at him blankly, Sam clears his throat and looks away. “ Look, I’m just gonna bite the bullet here. I feel like a lot of this distrust stems from your…relationship.” There’s foreboding in the uneasy shifting of his seat. “You know. With Benny.”

 

Despite how obvious it is, how obvious it must always have been, especially to Sam, hearing it out loud is like a punch to the solar plexus. He feels a cold prickle of anxiety along his spine. This is the Thing of Which They Do Not Speak, the Thing of Which No One Speaks, at least around Dean Winchester. He’s not even sure he’s ever heard Sam say Benny’s name before; it’s shocking, and it _hurts_ , which is infuriating. Even after all these years, his heart rate picks up anxiously at his mere mention. To hear Sam mutter his name, _knowingly_ , is almost too much to handle.

 

“Please stop looking like you’re about to run or turn over the table,” Sam rushes out, and his obvious discomfort is bizarrely comforting. He knows this subject is taboo. He’s just as weirded out as Dean is, and that knowledge actually helps to ease the panicked edge.

 

“For _fuck’s sake_ ,” Dean says weakly, which isn’t much of a response, as far as these things go, but Sam seems a bit mollified. Dean blows out a tense breath.

 

“I just, you know. We’ve never talked about it, not once,” Sam says quietly, and there’s almost a plea in there somewhere. Dean closes his eyes against it. There are some things he’s not ready to say. There are some things he never wants his brother to know, and if he can keep the secrets in, he can keep the feelings pressed down, he’s sure of it.

 

“Don’t know what there is to say,” Dean grumbles, dismissive, defiant. “And I don’t see how it’s relevant.”

 

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

 

“ _What_?”

 

“Are we really supposed to go on pretending that entire, what, _year_ of our lives never happened?” Sam laughs then, dark and incredulous. “It’s been like a decade, Dean!”

 

“Look, it was a rough time, all right?” Dean snaps. Far from looking cowed, Sam looks slightly torn between anger and triumph.

 

“That is _literally_ what I’m trying to say.”

 

_Oh._

 

“Dean,” Sam presses, “I know that was a rough time, which is _why_ _we need to talk about it._ ” He’s turned the moon eyes on him, and Dean avoids them. There’s truth in what Sam’s saying, but Sam doesn’t know the whole truth. He doesn’t know what Dean did. He doesn’t know what Dean _was_.

 

Or what he wasn’t.

 

Sam is still looking at him, a puppy in his late twenties, an oversized boy with two degrees and a soft spot for lost causes. He looks ridiculous. He looks a little like their mom.

 

“Fine. I hear you.”

 

Sam smiles then, relief breaking over his face like sunlight on a cloudy day; as unenthused as he is about having this conversation, it always makes Dean breathe a little easier to see Sam smiling. Even if just for an instant, it means that Dean’s done right by him. “Good. I’m glad,” he says, and it’s a tone of voice you could wake up in the morning to hear.

 

“Alright, pansy,” Dean says without any real malice. “You were saying?”

 

It’s interesting, kind of eloquent, the way his brother’s face manages to take on a more serious light without his smile fading completely. “I was saying, that…well, to be honest, I never thought Benny was good for you.”

 

Dean snorts unattractively. “No kidding, Watson.”

 

He remembers with stark precision just how not good for him Benny was. When the chips were down and things got rough, Dean let a little childish, bicurious infatuation take priority over his family. And one starry, starry night, when his dad took his drunken tumble down the hotel stairs and robbed his sons of the last remaining fragment of their innocence, Dean was with Benny, making a big queer mistake instead of looking after his own. If Dean had been there, John wouldn’t have fallen.

 

And they wouldn’t have been free of him.

 

“What are you thinking, right now?” Sam asks softly, and Dean jumps a little, shooting him an apologetic glance. “Don’t lie. I’ll know if you lie.”

 

Dean considers it. Sam’s a lawyer, and thus lies for a living. Better not to risk it. “I’m thinking about Dad. The night he died.”

 

Sam’s eyes soften, but his mouth presses into a firm line when he stares into the middle distance. “Me, too, actually.” He catches his brother’s eye. “I think that’s why I never said anything about Benny, even when...well. I don’t know. But after Dad went, Benny was kind of the only thing that made you smile.”

 

Dean’s almost drops his face into his pizza, face reddening. Touchy, feely, kumbayah shit. “Oh my fucking God.”

 

“So I just kind of let it go,” Sam barrels on. “And I mean, what could I have done anyway? It’s your life.” Dean realizes, as he has realized pretty much every day of his life, how incredibly lucky he is to have had Sam in his life, respecting his boundaries and his decisions and being there even when Dean is hopelessly, recklessly wrong, picking up the pieces and ordering pizzas when Dean doesn’t think to do it first. “But then after a while, Benny stopped coming around. I guess you had something to do with that,” Sam goes on, shrugging a little. “And you were really, really wrecked for a minute there.”

 

Dean nods, once, grudgingly. It would have been hard to disagree. When Dean realized that his big ball of twisted up gay was doing more harm than good, he’d known he had to end it, but damn, it had hurt. It kind of still did. Obviously. He doesn’t know what he had looked like from the outside, but breaking off his… _whatever_ with Benny had been like cutting his own gut open and then trying to joke about it. “

 

“But,” Sam continues thoughtfully, “after a while you just sort of focused on me and sports and pretending like nothing had ever happened…”

 

Dean looks away. He remembers. He’s not sure if he even missed him, after. He remembers the old man’s fist, his sneering face. He remembers the tap, tap, tap of the beer bottle against the counter while Sam tried his best to study. He remembers the drunken rage, the unerring slur, the constant antagonism. How John constantly goaded Sam: _their mother sacrificed everything for Sam, for all of them; how they could never measure up_. How Dean had fumed and raged and barked out hurried _yes sir_ ’s to keep the wrath from seething out of John and onto his youngest son. And above all, Dean remembers Sam. Sam, who always believed John could get better, could get well, could be the man he was meant to be. Sam was so distressed when John died; Dean’s shock and repulsion had been incredible. Sammy would have never wished their father dead. He wished him to be healthy. Dean wished him to be less problematic. And one of their prayers got answered, and one of them was secretly glad, and one of them turned out to be kind of a self-righteous monster.

 

And all along, little Sammy had been caring about Dean’s feelings. What a fucking world.

 

“I’m so fucking sorry,” Dean rasps out, gruff around the catch in his voice. “I never…I should’ve thought about how all this affected you. I should have been thinking about your feelings - ”

 

“Dude, all you fucking _did_ was think about how things were affecting me! You’ve lived your entire life thinking about others and, and, and blaming yourself for not being able to magically fix every problem you see!”

 

“Don’t you make me out to be a saint, Sam. If you could have heard what was going on in my head - ”

 

“You think I don’t know? You think I wasn’t right there?” Sam’s yelling now, voice harsh in the quiet space. “ _You think you’re the only one who hated him sometimes_?”

 

Dean can’t help it, reeling back like he’s been slapped.

 

“Of course I did, sometimes, Dean. I remember the things he said about me. I remember every time you went to bat for me. The booze and the pain and the blame and the big brother who always had my back. Dean, you _give so much_. You have _always_ given so much. Can you do me a solid and stop loathing yourself for it?”

 

Sam’s face is earnest and tearful and crestfallen and Dean feels like he could cry and this is all so stupid; everything happened a decade ago and somehow it’s still managing to ruin his life. “Jesus fuck, what is even the point of talking about this shit?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know. Could it have something to do with that _massive panic attack_ you had?”

 

Dean glares but can’t think of a witty retort, and they both deflate a little, all at once, like brothers do, when they find common ground and stop for breath and finally look each other in the eye as people, as equals, as more than shared childhood memories. When Dean remains silent, Sam continues, more subdued, on his merry therapist way. “The real question here, is why does talking about – hell, _thinking_ about Benny mess with your head so much?”

 

Dean does put his head in his hands then, because how can he answer that? How can he tell his baby brother that Benny made him feel _bad_ , which made him perversely feel _good?_ How can he tell him that he knew he was a self-involved, entitled douchebag, and Benny didn’t disagree? That Benny ground him down to suit his needs, to get a pliant Dean, a broken Dean, a Dean who needed Benny? How can he tell Sam that he gave over his body to lose himself, to find a few blissful moments where the knowledge of his entirely fucked existence could slip away? That he did things with another man that he wouldn’t do with _anyone_? That the few cherished moments Benny murmured pleasure against his fevered skin were the only times Dean could feel valid, wanted, alive?

 

Sam is still looking at him expectantly; Dean can barely remember the fucking question.

 

“Why? Does it fuck with me?” Dean asks lowly. Sam nods. “I don’t even know. Because I was in a dark place, and I let the guy get me into an even darker one?”

 

“You let him?” There is a quiet keenness in Sam’s voice, a sudden awareness, a warning Dean doesn’t understand. They’ve reached the precipice of something, and of course Sam is there first, Sam knows where this is going, and Dean is still in the dark, fumbling for the light switch. “You knew he wasn’t good for you.”

 

Did he? It doesn’t take much probing for Dean to nod assent. Of course on some level, he knew Benny was bad for him. He’d known all along. He knew the first time his mouth had promised mischief out of the passenger’s side of that busted old pickup of his.

 

“Why did you let him, Dean?”

 

_Because I cared about him. Because I saw the good in him. Because I was a broken thing and I needed a villain and it had to be me and Benny validated every last terrible thing I felt about myself. Because by the time I realized he should’ve done better by me, I was too far gone._

_“Why_ , Dean?”

 

 _Because I loved him._ “God _damn_ it, Sam, because I felt like I deserved it!” The words ring in the air, charged and sharp and brimming with intent. “And it kills me, alright? That I was so fucking weak, that I let someone I _knew_ was no good for me have so damn much.”

 

“You were wrong.” Sam’s voice is quiet but it cuts across Dean’s tirade like he’d shouted. “You didn’t deserve that, Dean.”

 

“Well, I get that _now_.”

 

“Do you?” Fucking perceptive little moose. Dean shifts uncomfortably.

 

“Mostly. I learned my lesson.” And Dean did; once bitten, twice wary as fuck. Self-reliance is a bitch, but he figured out the rules the hard way: his family comes first, and the only shoulders Dean can rest weight on are his own. When he looks up, though, Sam is doing that thing with his eyes where he tries to see right into Dean’s thick skull; worst of all, he comes away looking sympathetic.

 

“You trusted him, and relied on him, and he let you down.” Sam leans forward and actually grabs him by the shoulders. “Dude, that’s on him. Not. You. You deserved better, and that’s not your fault.”

Dean smiles a little to compensate for the little shocked tremor that runs through him. “You think so?”

 

“I’m in a constant state of thinking so.”

 

Dean wonders if Sam knows how badly Dean wants to believe him. “You would,” Dean says, and he claps Sam on the shoulder, manfully, trying to convey that he’s going to think about what he said, but also that he needs to change the subject _right fucking now_. “Sorry I’m a hot mess, bro.”

 

“I’m used to it,” Sam replies in a glib way, and Dean is relieved that he’s taken the hint, releasing his shoulders to steal his beer. “I’m guessing all of this is why you’re such a closet case.”

 

Dean’s mouth drops open in shock, and Sam can barely hear Dean’s squawked, “ _Excuse me?!”_ over his own chortling.

 

“You heard me, assbutt.”

 

“I am _not_ a closet case!”

 

“Oh, you’re out now? Good for you.”

 

“I – fucking – Sam! I’m not gay!”

 

Sam squints at him, grin, still playing around the corners of his mouth. “Hmm, no, definitely not.” Dean relaxes incrementally, which is the perfect opportunity for Sam to slyly add, “Bisexual, on the other hand…”

 

Dean stands, pulling Sam out of his chair into a half nelson; Sam seems unconcerned. “Say, how much do you know about pansexuality?”

 

The headlock translates into a brief, well-meaning tussle on the floor, which Dean summarily wins. Sam may have three inches on his older brother, but one of them was an athlete and one of them was a huge nerd. From their position on the floor, sweaty and realizing they were getting a little old for play fisticuffs, Sam grabs a throw pillow and hits Dean with it almost gently.

 

“Dude, I gotta ask. I mean, you don’t have a problem with…gay rights?”

 

“No, of course not,” Dean blinks. “I’m part of the faculty alliance, I think. GLBTQ… uh… A …?”

 

“And it doesn’t weird you out?”

 

“Gay couples, you mean?” When Sam doesn’t say anything, Dean shrugs. “No, not really. I mean, my buddy Gabriel is a damned flirt, but it’s uncomfortable because he’s kind of a sleaze…”

 

“So. Uh. Why are you so…?” Sam waves at him impatiently. “I mean, you had Benny.”

 

Dean flushes and rolls onto his stomach. “Oh my _God_ , shut up.”

 

“Shan’t.” Sam hits him with the pillow again, casually. “We’ve come this far. And he was your, what? Boyfriend?” Dean grumbles into his forearm. “Friend with benefits? _Sexy_ benefits?”

 

“ _Sam_ ,” Dean whines. Sam doesn’t seem to care.

 

“Whatever. I don’t actually want to know the details, because bleargh. But man, I lived in Bobby’s house, too. I know you were more than just buddies.” Sam huffs out an annoyed breath at Dean’s stubborn silence. “Aaaaaaaand I’m guessing you liked it, at least a little.” More incoherent, deranged, uncomfortable noises whine out of Dean’s throat, but no resistance is really offered, so Sam goes for it. “Come on, man, it’s cool if you like dudes.”

 

“I like chicks,” Dean grumbles.

 

“I noticed that. Everyone in the world noticed that.” Sam pokes him in the shoulder until Dean finally makes eye contact with him. Well, Dean glares at him, but it’s much of the same. “You know I won’t judge you, right?”

 

Dean flushes but doesn’t look away. “I know that.”

 

“Is it because you think it’ll make you less…manly?”

 

“Nothing could make me less manly,” Dean counters. Sam stares back at him for a long moment before abruptly huffing and throwing up his hands.

 

“Well, then _why_?!”

 

It’s a long time before Dean says anything, a long time before he can bring himself to say anything at all.

 

“It’s just…no good ever came of it. You know?”

 

“Dean…”

 

“It just seems like an omen. Or, I don’t know, like it would dishonor Dad’s memory?” Dean shakes his head against his forearm, laughing without any mirth. “I dishonor him enough as it is…It just never seemed right. Not for me, Sam. I don’t know how to explain it.”

 

Neither of them say much for a while, and they don’t really need or want to. They just lay there in companionable silence, two brothers on a floor, sharing the weight of an awkward, tense, long-overdue moment.

 

“That kind of really sucks for Castiel,” Sam says eventually, conversationally.

 

“I know, right?” he chuckles before abruptly realizing what the hell he’s said. His head jerks up to see Sam’s face, frozen in a rictus of delighted triumph. “Oh. No, I mean - ”

 

“I knew it. I _knew it!”_ If Dean thought it had been as awkward as humanly possible before, he was so very, very wrong. “You like him. You _like_ him, and he _likes_ you. Have you seen him again?!”

 

Dean blanches and rolls away from him. “We are not doing this. This is middle-school-girl’s-slumber-party shit right here.”

 

“You _have_ seen him!” Sam crows. “Did you get a drink?”

 

“Well,” Dean grumbles eventually, “I got drunk. And he was nearby. But it wasn’t a date!”

 

Sam just cackles mercilessly. “This is precious. Is that all?”

 

“…”

 

“Dean.”

 

“…”

 

“ _Dean!_ ”

 

“…he might’ve brought me a hangover cure the next day.”

 

“A _hangover cure._ Was it,” Sam begins, choking around an ugly laugh, “was it kisses?”

 

He continues to needle him for details, and once Dean has grudgingly given them (alongside a few punches and pillow-strikes), Sam reclines with a look that can only be described as smug.

 

“What are you grinning about?” Dean demands, because Sam doesn't seem to realize that Dean’s dilemma is actually slightly fucking tragic. “You haven’t even met the guy.”

 

“Snarky, dry literature professor? I just like Cas. The idea of him. For you.”

 

“I think that’s because your masculinity has been replaced with glitter and rainbows,” Dean replies, blocking when the pillow comes hurtling towards him again. “Hey, I said I think! But let’s be real, I can’t possibly have the knowledge to back that up; I haven’t done the legwork.”

 

“Mmhmm. Whatever, man. Your unrequited crush is pretty much the highlight of my week.”

 

“How nice for you. It’s not a crush, by the way.”

 

“Oh no?”

 

“No. It’s just a…you know. A physical thing.”

 

“Like a kink?”

 

“I’m glad you’re enjoying this. It makes me feel lousy. The _exact word_ is lousy.” Dean pauses. “It’s kind of funny: I’m a little bit miserable.”

 

 “That is an absolute riot.”

 

“I just mean, all of this baggage? It doesn’t have anything to do with Cas, man. And I wish I didn’t have to shoulder it around him, but it’s there.”

 

The guilt is obviously weighing heavily on him, and Sam sighs and relents like the big sap he is. “With what you’ve been through? It’s natural to feel like this, Dean. Hell, I’ve been down this road. Thinking someone’s not good for you. Thinking you’ll be hurt if you give too much of yourself. Afraid to take a risk.” Sam pokes him in the ribs again. “For the record? Doesn’t sound like _just a physical thing,_ Dean.”

 

“It is, Sam. I would know.”

 

“Whatever you say. You know, I think we can both learn something from this conversation. Something poetic.”

 

“I took the road less traveled by, and it was a huge fucking mistake?”

 

Sam just grins at him. “More like, it has been a beautiful fight; _still is_.”

 

“Alright, who’s been giving the lawyer poetry lessons?”

 

“His dopey older brother. Dean,” he says, more seriously, “at your own speed, alright? Just, you know, be honest with yourself and all that, try not to overthink it. Try to _enjoy_ your life.”

 

Dean stares him down for a solid moment before nodding at him. “Yeah. Okay. Enjoying life.”

 

“And also, you know, possibly Castiel’s dick.”

 

“Oh my fucking _God!_ ” Dean yelps, jumping up with the pillow and bludgeoning his little brother with it.

 

Sam just cackles.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you ever want to talk about my feelings, I suggest whiskey and Supernatural, actually. I had trouble writing Sam and Dean's dialogue so I made myself a condensed version of it. I posted it [HERE](http://trustdreams.tumblr.com/post/66935266944/both-sides-now-chapter-six-cliff-notes) and I think it's hilarious because I am a giant goob.
> 
> As always, I'd love to hear what you think! A lot of you come visit my tumblr and never say hi. I do not bite. <3


	7. Several Hundred Seconds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel, Crowley, and the coffee pot makes three. And none of them want Dean to get any work done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter was getting super long, so I decided to chop it in half and post it the first section early for you guys. It is largely unedited but I might look at it later? Sorry it took so long - the time around Black Friday is a horrid time to work retail. But hey, this means the next chapter is mostly finished - maybe I can get posted within a week? (We can dream.)

* * *

 

In hindsight, it might’ve been a little unfair to take his frustration out on the coffee pot, but in his defense it’s been a rough couple of days and that broken son of a bitch owed Dean a caffeine fix.

 

And it _did_ make some very satisfying smashing noises when he roughed it up.

 

Today was a mistake, Dean decides. He started off admirable enough, trying to wake up early to get in and get some extra work done. Somehow he missed his first alarm. His car window jammed open just as the grey sky started to give up its raindrops. He caught every red light on the way to work. He couldn’t find a parking space. He walked into the elevator doors in front of one of his superiors. Something had to give, and the coffee pot was asking for it.

 

Situated this close to the entrance and the break room both, he’d heard the first of his colleagues show up head straight for the Folgers. His fingers still on his keyboard as he waits, listening.

 

There is a telltale series of smashes from around the corner. Moments later, Castiel storms into Dean’s line of sight and stops short when he catches Dean’s eye.

 

“Coffee pot’s broken,” Castiel says, too casually. His hair is mussed and there’s powdered creamer on the wrist of his trench coat.

 

“Yeah, I noticed that already,” Dean grumbles, displeased with his constant unwitting appraisal of the other man. One of Cas’ eyebrows lifts gently and Dean sighs. “Sorry. I’m kind of a vicious douchebag without caffeine.”

 

“I see,” Castiel replies carefully, with what might be an endeared smile threatening to play around his lips. “I’ll file that away for future reference.”

 

He sweeps through the door to his (much larger) office before Dean can properly process whether or not there was an innuendo there, so he just gives up, turning back to his computer. He’s already finished his exam schedule prospectus so he’s tinkering with his story as much as his muse will allow. It isn’t much, but the quiet is nice while it lasts.

 

“I hate my students,” Gabriel complains, deliberately nasal as he bursts through the doors. Everyone’s in a fucking mood this morning and Dean hasn’t had enough coffee for these bullshit shenanigans.

 

“I’m certain the feeling is entirely mutual,” Dean grumbles dismissively, mind still in desperate need of non-existent caffeine. Gabriel ignores the warning in his tone and sits on the arm of his chair. The whole thing squeals precariously.

 

“What are you working on?” Gabriel’s voice is unconcerned as he shrugs off his damp raincoat.

 

“Invoices. I’m ordering new coworkers.”

 

“Well, _somebody_ didn’t eat their Wheaties today.” He digs a bag of M &Ms out of his pocket while Dean casually jots some concepts down on a bright green sticky note before he loses them.

“I had a stressful couple of days.” Dean snorts at Gabriel’s expectant expression. “A _very_ stressful couple of days.”

 

“Ah ha. You want to talk about it?”

 

“Here?” Dean demands incredulously, waving away the proffered bag of candy. “ _Now?”_

 

“Nah. Game tonight, though, Washington and Stanford. Thought we could grab a burger down at the little sports bar on Fifth.”

 

Dean’s immediate rejection fails on his lips as he considers. Gabe might’ve made a wreck of him last time, but he could definitely pay better attention this week, and Sam went to Stanford: he’d probably be pretty emotionally invested in a rivalry between their schools. “Actually, yeah. I was going to get a bite with Sam, though. Mind if he comes?”

 

“I’ve been waiting for this day. Your wildly successful little bro?” Gabriel swoons around his chocolate. “Be still my heart.”

 

“Not…not _wildly_ ,” Dean mutters.

 

“Tell me he’s tall.”

 

Dean mutters something about giants and Gabe laughs at him again. He stops short and leans in close, all stealth and conspiracy.

 

“Uh-oh. Somebody’s coming. Someone you don’t like.”

 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Oh, hey, that could be _fucking anybody.”_

“Winchester!”

 

Enter Crowley. Professor Crowley, more accurately, who gives the unnerving impression of being able to see right through you, down to the core of who and what you are, and find you extraordinarily lacking. He oozes confidence, but in a much different way than anyone Dean’s ever met before. It’s a mesmerizing terror that grips Dean as he meets his eyes. “Good morning, professor.”

“Isn’t it just?” Crowley replies in a tone of mysterious superiority. “Guess who’s got good news for you?”

 

“Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ?” Gabriel offers.

 

Crowley rounds on him with a look like he’s only just noticed a change in the decor. “Gabriel Cheshire. Annoyed and delighted, as always.”

 

“Professor Crowley. I have a fierce desire to get you a drink, _as always_.”

 

“And I, a fierce desire to get you a gag.”

 

“Kinky.”

 

Crowley turns back to Dean, ignoring Gabriel’s indignant huff, presumably born of his abrupt dismissal. “Singer put me in charge of the new instructor evaluations. I need you to sit in on some of the professor’s classes with me, Winchester.” Dean doesn’t quite catch his groan in time and Crowley smirks. “Yes, I’m afraid so. Policy dictates a review by _two_ trusted staff members and wouldn’t you know it, you actually made the cut.”

 

“Why me?” Dean complains. It’ll mean extra hours, extra reports to fill out, and extra time feeling like a goober in front of the sleekest expat Brit in America _._ “Why not Gabriel?”

 

“Oh, Cheshire made the cut, too, but our schedules don’t correlate as well. You,” he says, leveling an even stare at the man perched at Dean’s side, “are stuck reviewing Pamela Barnes with me on Tuesday. Hooray.”

 

“Hooray indeed.” Dean’s knows that Gabriel’s smirk is an honest one; Pamela is smoking hot and Gabriel mentions it daily and loudly. “What about Dean? Who’s he got?”

 

“I don’t want anyone,” Dean grumbles. “This is stupid.”

 

“This is your _job_ ,” Crowley replies with some venom, and Dean remembers too late that this man is both his superior and also a contemptuous nightmare when he’s annoyed. “And I’m only making you review one teacher, so calm down. Every staff member who can go through this exercise will. I even sought you out first, so you could choose.”

 

 Dean runs his fingers through his hair. “Well, no one’s really sticking out at me. You could choo- ”

“Do you know what _I_ think?” Gabe jumps up from the chair and, Dean realizes belatedly, out of reach. His feels a knot starting to form in his stomach and shakes his head viciously when Crowley’s not looking. “I think you and Dean would form a _great_ team for evals! And I think,” here he pauses for dramatic effect, deliberating not catching Dean’s pleading expression, “your free time syncs up for Professor James’ study on the American novel!”

 

“It’s on the list,” Crowley says slowly, suspiciously, eyes darting between Dean’s pursed lips and Gabriel’s glee. “Among others.”

 

“Don’t you think that would be _perfect_ though? Two experienced reviewers with such different approaches and backgrounds. And an Englishman’s perspective on American prose? It’s a match made in heaven.”

 

This is bad. Dean contemplates the best way to murder Gabriel as his avoids Crowley’s rapidly narrowing gaze. “What do you think, Winchester?”

 

Strangling would be satisfying, but hard to call an accident. “That works for me,” he grinds out. “Not a problem.”

 

Crowley steps just a bit closer and Dean has to actively stop himself from leaning away nervously. “I’m missing something here,” Crowley says lowly. It’s not a question. “I don’t like being out of the loop.”

 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Dean replies doggedly.

 

Crowley studies his face carefully before standing up with a displeased scowl. “James it is, then. Please inform him and inquire as to which day works best for him. I’ve got my eye on you, Winchester,” he promises, and with a sardonic nod at Gabriel he saunters out the door.

 

Dean and Gabriel stare at each as the sounds of more officemates going about their day trickles into the room.

 

“I hate you. I am going to _kill_ you.”

 

“I’m a pot stirrer.”

 

“ _In your goddamned_ _sleep._ ”

 

“I stir the pot!”

 

Dean cuts himself short when he sees an all too familiarly tousled head and a trenchcoat wending their way towards the exit. _Shit shit shit._

 

“Professor James! Do you have a second?”

 

Castiel looks over his shoulder, expression warming as he catches sight of Dean on his way out of the office. “For you, I could have several hundred seconds.”

 

Dean admirably avoids flushing as he grabs his briefcase and rushes to catch up with him. “Sorry, I’m sure you’re on your way to class…”

 

“Not quite yet. I was thinking of coffee, actually. Join me?”

 

“What’s this about coffee?” Gabriel’s voice is high and amused as he steps out of Dean’s office and right into their moment. Dean closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t take one fucking hint is his life, could he?

 

“Hello, Gabriel,” Cas rumbles good-naturedly. “Coffee pot’s broken.”

 

“It _is_?” Gabriel asks. Dean chances a look at him and almost groans at his nearly hysterical delight. _Ugh._ “Oh noooo.”

 

“Would you like to join us?” Castiel asks. It’s phrased politely, but Dean’s heart catches on a faint trace of what might be reticence in his voice.

 

“I’d love to! Got to get my caffeine fix!” Gabriel replies obliviously. Or not so obliviously, if the wink he aims at Dean behind Cas’ back is anything to go by.

 

“What are you _doing_?” Dean mutters angrily as they head down the stairwell, words masked by their echoing feet.

 

Gabriel smirks.

 

* * *

 

What Gabriel is doing, it turns out, is testing a hypothesis. And driving Dean crazy in the meanwhile.

 

“You’re sure you’re cool with this, Cas?” Dean asks again, because he is weak. Cas smiles at him, blue eyes twinkling in a very becoming fashion in the morning light. _Dear God,_ Dean thinks, _I’m turning into Byron._

“I am so very cool with this, Dean, you do not even know,” he replies, twitching his shoulders under his trench coat. “To be honest with you, I’m relieved it won’t just be Crowley. I’m not sure if he intimidates me, but I get the impression I’ve done something to offend him.”

 

“The world has done something to offend him,” Dean offers, “and that is existing.”

 

Cas chuckles, shifting in place restlessly. Cas, Dean is learning, dislikes standing in lines. Also waiting, and France for some reason, and overuse of the word Kafkaesque. “How long does it take to order coffee?” he complains quietly. Dean has the uncomfortable impulse to smooth the furrows off of his forehead with his thumb. _Stop it._ “And thank you for that, but I get the impression Crowley dislikes me personally.”

 

“Why would anybody dislike you?” Dean flinches internally and wishes he could take it back for the split second before Castiel turns those bright blue eyes on him again. Some things are probably worth being embarrassed for, and someone looking at him like _that_ …

 

“How do you take your coffee, Cas?” Gabriel asks, butting in with relish.

 

“Very, very seriously.”

 

Dean chuckles and Gabe raises his eyebrows at him while Cas studies the drink menu.

 

“ _What_?” Dean whispers, almost petulantly. Definitely petulantly. Okay, he’s whining a little.

 

“I’ll take a venti tuxedo mocha frappe with an extra shot of espresso,” Gabriel tells the barista loudly in lieu of answering. “And if you’re feeling generous with the chocolate drizzle it would make my day.”

 

“Sure thing,” the girl replies with a cheeky wink. “Is this all on one…oh. Hi, Professor Winchester!”

 

Ah. Dean had thought she was familiar; the nametag says Madison and it rings a bell. “Not a professor, but hi. Didn’t I have you in Creative Writing last year?”

 

“Yeah.” She blushes a little and he thinks he might feel Cas rustling beside him. Maybe? “It was fun.”

 

“I do my best,” he says with a small smile. “I’ll take a grande cup of the bold blend, by the way.”

 

“Make that two. And this _is_ all together,” Castiel interjects smoothly. Dean is probably imagining that those words have a sort of weight to them but it makes his pulse thrum erratically all the same. Cas waves off his and Gabriel’s objections with a snort. “They probably don’t pay you two enough. Allow me.”

 

“Well, thanks!” Gabriel responds brightly. “I often say that I’m underappreciated, yes.”

 

Madison giggles a little as she swipes Castiel’s card. Gabriel’s returning smile approaches lewdness, and Dean elbows him in the side.

 

“Dude, she’s a student,” he hisses as the three of them amble off to grab a table.

 

“She’s a senior,” he mutters back. “And a cutie.”

 

Dean is surprised when Castiel laughs, eyes twinkling. “Mischief is your calling, Gabo.”

 

“And yet they won’t let me pursue a doctorate in _that_. The world is cruel.”

 

Dean leaves the table uneasily as Cas launches into a series of rapid-fire questions about Gabriel’s thesis. He’s starting to think he knows what Gabe’s up to, but it’s nothing good and involves too many sassy, insinuating asides for Dean’s liking. He decisively avoids Madison’s gaze as he collects and balancing three coffee drinks as best he can. He slowly retraces his steps, and that’s when his heart begins to pound in earnest.

 

“…if he could ever work up the nerve to do it,” he hears Gabriel murmur. Cas’ brow furrows as he shakes his head.

 

“I don’t think so. I do not believe that’s what Dean wants.”

 

“You’re sure?”

 

“Not at all. But it is impetuous of you to assume that this path is inevitable.”

 

“Coffee’s up,” Dean announces loudly over their murmurs, heart hammering out an erratic beat in his chest. Castiel jumps and looks up with a decidedly guilty expression. Gabriel, on the other hand, bites his lip flirtatiously and quirks his shoulders. Dean sulks into his chair. “And what are you two conspiring about?”

 

There’s a long pause as Gabe slurps at his frappe. “We were discussing bravery, you could say.”

 

“Gabriel, don’t tease,” Castiel chastises, a flush on his face. “Actually, _he_ was making injudicious claims about your desires. I was defending you.”

 

“Oh really?” Dean asks, trying to keep his voice even despite the high dial tone that decided to kick on somewhere in his head. Gabriel has no right to talk to Cas about these things. This thing. Whatever this thing is. He doesn’t even know – well, he doesn’t know _anything,_ even if there were something to know, which there isn’t. Dean turns what was hopefully not an obviously murderous expression on him. “Do tell.”

 

Gabriel’s eyebrows shoot up but he remains silent. They stare at each other.

 

Tension bleeds into everything.

 

Eventually Castiel harrumphs. “He was _implying,”_ he grinds out with a look of annoyance at Gabe, “that you haven’t pursued your doctorate because, well…”

 

“My doctorate?” Dean’s mind blanks momentarily before it all catches up with him. Gabriel wasn’t ratting him out? He stares at the smaller man with a scrambled mess of relief and resentment. _Gabriel, you devious little shit._ “Because _why_ , Gaby Baby?” he demands, playing along.

 

Gabriel does an admirable impression of a chicken clucking. Dean kicks him under the table. Castiel rolls his eyes and mutters something that might be, “Are you both _children_?” into his coffee.

 

“Part of me is jealous, you know,” Gabriel admits, balling up with straw wrapper and chucking it at Dean. “Wish I was writing bedtime stories instead of putting all this work into something that probably isn’t even worth it.”

 

“It is worth it,” Castiel says sharply, obviously surprised. “It is worth it because it’s important to you, Gabriel. Do not discount your own feelings. They matter. They are perhaps _all_ that matters, in pursuing your goals.”

 

Dean has a moment of triumph as Gabe – _Gabe –_ flushes red under Castiel’s words and scrutiny. Finally it isn’t just Dean who’s affected by Cas’ forthrightness; the man could make a fortune if he could bottle that kind of intensity. “Okay, okay, geez.”

 

“And ‘ _bedtime stories’_ was a condescending way to talk about Dean’s work.”

 

“It was a joke!”

 

“Humor at someone’s expense isn’t funny. You should apologize.”

 

“Yeah, you should,” Dean says in a mockery of earnestness.

 

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Gabriel says flatly. “I’m so sorry I insulted your enormous talent.”

 

Dean flashes his most winning smile at him while Cas asks, “How is your novel going, by the way?”

 

And that is Cas all over, hot and cold, indignant but level, honest and demanding and full of conviction. He listens attentively as Dean attempts to explain the frustrating writing process, laughing at all the right cues and sending sassy quips at Gabriel’s interjections. His level of study is intense and bewildering and, and, and _flattering_ , it’s _very_ flattering,  and Dean hates himself for how much he enjoys Cas’ gaze on him and his seemingly endless interest in every dumb thing he says.

 

Dean has almost convinced himself that this café meeting is going to go off without an awkward hitch when Gabriel gasps quietly and grabs Castiel’s arm.

 

“Who, Cassie, be cool, but smoking hottie at your four o’clock,” he mutters.

 

“Don’t call me that,” Cas grumbles, but he’s already turning his head slightly. Dean sees there is, in fact, a very attractive _man_ coming in through the doorway, and suddenly develops a studious interest in the texture of his coffee lid. “Wow, is that your type?”

 

“I’m a fan of all types,” Gabriel whispers with conviction. “But _look at him_.”

 

“He is attractive,” Castiel admits, turning back to his coffee. “But I’ve seen better.”

 

And then he winks at Dean.

 

_He fucking winks at Dean._

Because apparently the Fates don’t hate him, Gabriel turns too quickly to notice. “I don’t know about that. Guy was an Adonis.”

 

“Interesting that you are so into machismo, though.” Cas’ voice is thoughtful as his blue eyes snap towards Handsome Stranger one more time. “Given your range.”

 

“What can I say? I like my men manly and my women womanly.”

 

“And your everything else…”

 

“Every other way.” Castiel laughs openly and Dean has a moment where he resents Gabe for bringing it out of him.  It opens up his whole face, changing the shape, forming lines and wrinkles and brightening his eyes. “But not so much you, eh? You’re, what, _homoflexible_?”

 

Dean sputters and chokes on his swig of coffee. “Gabe!” he hisses wetly, still coughing.

 

Cas thumps Dean on the back. “I suppose,” he says with a laugh. “I guess I never worried too much about it. I had better things to torture myself about.”

 

Dean tries to laugh with them, but he’s unsettled by a swell of something between guilt and curiosity. Because Dean had certainly tortured himself about his sexuality, and also he had absolutely no idea what could have plagued Cas in his past. All at once, Dean realizes that he hates it, he _hates_ the idea of Cas being in pain.

 

Hell of a thing to learn with Gabriel staring him in the face, but there’s no helping that.

 

“Shit!” Gabriel yelps absurdly, standing quickly and fooling absolutely no one. “I had a meeting with Professor Singer! Gotta bounce!”

 

“Good luck,” he stage whispers at Dean as he sidles past. “I want details at dinner tonight. You’re absolutely _fucked_.”

 

Dean doesn’t really have time to respond to that. A moment later it’s just him and Cas, sitting in a Starbucks, looking at each other. He supposed it should feel more awkward than it does, but it’s not like this is outside the realm of their friendship. Hell, most of what they _do_ is hang around coffeehouses and stare lingeringly at each other.

 

Dean realizes he has become remarkably self aware.

 

“I guess we should head back,” Cas says, and he isn’t imagining it; there’s real reluctance in his voice.

 

“Yeah,” Dean responds. There’s really no excuse for it, he’s just ogling Cas now. He’s very handsome, in a unique way, all planes and hollows and a full upper lip. It seems unrealistic that someone’s eyes could be that color, but there he is, eyes like an evening sky and crinkly smile lines and _clearing his throat awkwardly because Dean can’t fucking stop staring at him._ “Right, let’s go.” Dean stands, thrilling at the pleased smirk Cas is trying to hide. He might be reading into it, but Castiel sure didn’t look at Gabe like that.

 

Like a ton of bricks it hits him that Cas _likes_ him. _Cas likes him._ In what is probably a very not-platonic way. And Dean should run from it, if he wants to keep his sanity.

 

He should.

 

He does not.

 

They share an amicable walk back to campus wherein Dean asks too many questions and Cas chastises him for prying but doesn’t really mean it. Sometimes Cas turns and just watches him talk. It should be weird (and it is) but he also finds himself enjoying it, despite the fact that he knows he shouldn’t be encouraging it. Dean really wants to be friends with Cas. Whatever else his body wants, Castiel James is a pretty strange and intelligent and awesome guy and Dean wants to be a part of that.

 

“Have you done a lot of modeling?”

 

“Oh, fuck you, Cas.”

 

Castiel steps right into Dean’s personal space and peers up at him. “You could have. Easily. You’re very symmetrical.”

 

Dean’s pulse flutters in his neck, more from the proximity and scrutiny than the compliment. “Thanks,” he says, stepping back in the guise of arranging his scarf, “that’s what all the girls tell me.”

 

He flinches inwardly – _Dean the Insensitive Fuckdragon rides again –_ but Cas merely chuckles.

 

“Somehow I doubt that, but they ought to.”

 

He takes the hint because he’s a gentleman and a better person than Dean will ever be, stepping out of Dean’s bubble and saluting as he backs away. “I’ll see you in class, Dean.” And he turns with a tiny grin and strides away.

 

Dean shakes his head as he watches Cas’ retreating form. _Fucking hell_ , he thinks hazily, wondering if he could get out of dinner tonight. After this morning, Gabriel is going to be a nightmare.

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I hang out on [tumblr](http://trustdreams.tumblr.com) and respond positively to encouragement and anecdotes. (p.s. there was a Community reference in this chapter somewhere.)


	8. Like Faces Are to Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Gabriel agree about one thing. Dean doesn't usually do work parties. For some reason, he's making an exception.

* * *

 

Dinner could be going worse, Dean figures. He drove Gabriel over to the bar in his own car, a vintage ’67 Chevy Impala, whereupon Gabe passed an important test in the scope of Dean’s life by appropriately admiring his baby. Sam showed up wearing his Cardinals hoodie and an expression of grave defiance. There was much posturing over favored brands of beer and burger toppings, and in the end Gabriel didn’t actually accost Sam. In fact, beyond his initial reactions (“Your _hair_ ; I can’t even. Are you two _models_ in your spare time?”) he let Sam off with a minimal amount of flirting. Before long, the sports heated their conversation beyond coyness.

 

“You’re a madman,” Sam declares, “and your beer is weak and tasteless.”

 

“Your beer is pretentious and so is your bone structure and your precious Birdies have nothing in the way of defense this year. You are _so_ going down.”

 

“Got a bird for you right here,” Sam retorts, flipping it.

 

“Now, now, gentlemen,” Dean soothes. “Class, not crass.  A round of scotch, on me?”

 

“Scotch?” Gabriel echoes morosely.

 

“Scotch is a man’s drink. We are manly men doing manly things. Oo-rah.”

 

Gabriel mutters something that might be nothing or might be about _doing_ _men._ Dean doesn’t ask him to clarify, flipping over the menu to pick something disastrously smoky and peaty out of spite. “We should get the Ardbeg.”

 

Sam brightens instantly. “That’s my favorite!”

 

“And you exhibit terrible judgment,” Gabriel sighs. “On the other hand, I’ve come here tonight because I desperately want your brother to smang my coworker, so I’m probably a bit off myself.” He grins at Sam’s stunned silence. “What can I say? I live a life of many pleasures. Vicarious ones are valid, too.”

 

“Fair enough,” Sam replies somewhat dazedly as Gabriel saunters off to put the whiskey on Dean’s tab. “Dean, _what the hell does smang mean?_ ”

 

“I have no idea.” Dean’s lying because he’s pretty sure he knows exactly what smang means.

 

“Is he always like this?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“It’s…a lot to take in.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“…are you even _friends_?”

 

“The jury’s out.”

 

The group works, more or less, Gabriel’s return to the table punctuated by quips and Sam taking Dean’s dubious coworker in stride, pulling out his sassiest comebacks to stay afloat. Dean likes sports as much as the next guy, but he isn’t particularly emotionally involved one way or the other and he knew what he was doing tonight. Mostly. It’s easier for him if Sammy’s pulling up the slack on statistics and friendly opposition. Dean likes talking a fair game but he prefers not to _have_ to.

 

“Well, this is a horrifying disappointment,” Sam announces tiredly as Stanford fumbles three consecutive passes in a row.

 

“Like your team!”

 

“Yeah, yeah.” The players huddle together on the big screen and Sam’s glum expression shifts into something that makes Dean want to bolt. “So. Gabe. What can you tell me about Castiel?”

 

“Oh, yeah!” Gabe hums contemplatively. “Well, he’s actually kind of awesome. Very weird, collects things, has strong opinions. Gorgeous, of course, but all big goo-goo eyes and five o’clock shadow. Completely taken with Chisel Chest over here.”

 

“Hey!”

 

“I’m pretty sure the feeling is mutual,” Sam mutters conspiratorially.

 

“ _Hey!”_

 

He gets laughter for his effort, so Dean puts his beer bottle to his lips and tries to ignore them.  “Oh, man, this morning, though,” Gabriel urges, eyes glinting. “You should have _seen_ him, Samwise! He was mooning. He was _pining_. It. Was. _Adorable._ ”

 

“I don’t pine!”

 

“I have seen him pine once or twice,” Sam says without looking at Dean.

 

“How _did_ the rest of that coffee date go, by the by?”

 

“Oh my God, can we just fucking watch football?”

 

And for a while they do, Sam and Gabe distracted by their rivalry once more. It’s a relief to be able to nod enthusiastically now and again and do his normal span of people watching while he enjoys his whiskey. It helps to take the edge off of a very edgy week, anyway.

 

In fact, he’s almost completely, blissfully distracted, minutes ticking by, when he abruptly registers the tone of the conversation he’s stopped listening to altogether.

 

“You _didn’t_.”

 

“Oh, I absolutely did. And our boss was like, ‘ _Yes, I suppose we could review Castiel’s class, wot wot._ ’”

 

Sam chortles unattractively. “Oh my fucking God, start from the beginning. Tell me _every single face_ Dean made.”

 

“No!” Dean snaps. “No telling of faces. Gabe, you shut your dirty mouth, you vile betrayer.”

 

“What?” Gabriel returns with an affected innocence that fools no one. “One of us had to stand up and be a man about the situation.”

 

“Oh, right. Have you tried your scotch yet?”

 

“No. I keep smelling it and getting intimidated.” Sam barely manages to catch his snicker in time, whether at Gabe’s hesitation or unabashed tone, Dean isn’t sure. “Hey, I like my alcohol like I like my lovers: sweet and new and fleeting.”

 

“There’s a kind of wisdom there I can get behind.”

 

“Sorry, Kemo-sammy, big brother over here is really more my type.”

  
“Somehow I will soldier on,” Sam says drily. Dean’s impressed with how well Sam’s already taking Gabriel in stride. He envies it, actually, because Gabriel often registers high on the Shitty Things Dean Has to Deal With Meter. “So back to Cas Class.”

 

“I came here for companionship,” Dean complains, “but no, you wear me down with fries and innuendo.”

 

“Yeah,” Sam agrees sadly. “ Do you think they’ll hook up?” he asks in an afterthought.

 

“ _Sammy_!”

 

“What? Gabriel wants to talk about it.”

 

“Gabriel is a drunken slut.”

 

“Oh, ouch. I bet Castiel would be a drunken slut for you.”

 

“Drink your whiskey.”

 

“Fuck you.”

 

* * *

 

It’s so very fucking stupid.

 

This is one of the stupidest things Dean has ever let himself be talked into.

 

It’s stupid that Gabriel was so smug earlier in the week and it’s stupid Crowley is so damned intent now.

 

Ten minutes in and Dean can’t tell what’s going to give out first, his knees or his heart. Hopefully the latter, because if his knees gave out, he’d probably manage to fuck _that_ up, not even hitting his head on his way down. And then he’d have to live with the humiliation. Heart stops? Bam. You’re dead. No damage control.

 

“What do you think of this lecture, eh?” Crowley murmurs in his ear, making him jump. His smirk indicates that he’s hardly impressed with the dark look he gets for his effort.

 

“I like it,” Dean declares lowly. “Cool parallels between Fitzgerald and Salinger.”

 

“Hmm. I would have thought Hemingway was the more relevant choice.”

 

“Hemingway is way overdone,” Dean counters. “Besides, he’s not talking contemporaries, he’s talking themes.”

 

Crowley leans away from him thoughtfully. Shit. “Well, _someone’s_ defensive.”

 

“I can’t help it; you bring out the best in me.”

 

“I do, do I?” Crowley hums. He turns his enigmatic attention back on Castiel, who, actual lesson material aside, is magnificent in front of a classroom. Passionate and earnest, he strides across the front of the lecture hall, defending the presented authors like they were dear friends of his, underrepresented and misunderstood. Which strikes Dean as funny, because pretty much the first thing he ever learned about the guy was that he didn’t think Fitzgerald was any great shakes. The scribbled timeline on the board is a hopeless mess, but Dean has no doubt the dates and events, however illegible, are entirely accurate.

 

“Do your students squint this much?” Crowley asks innocuously. Dean grits his teeth a little. Of course he’s on the prowl for any means to throw a wrench someone else’s works. “Methinks Professor James could use a calligraphy lesson.”

 

“All students squint. That’s the pinched, stressed out face of undergraduate education.”

 

“Ah. So what’s your excuse? Just aging rather badly?”

 

“If we’re dueling, I’ll take this moment to demand satisfaction.”

 

“And here I thought your particular brand of machismo didn’t lend itself to this sort of thing,” Crowley insinuated dryly. “But now that you mention it…”

 

“Veering into inappropriate territory here, Professor.”

 

“Feel free to lodge a formal complaint with Professor Singer.”

 

“I’d like to lodge a complaint in your eye,” Dean mutters, ruffled. He doesn’t like the way Crowley flirts, like he doesn’t mean it but knows it will get up under your thought processes and undermine everything about you. He lays down innuendo everywhere he goes, and Dean’s not a huge face of navigating conversational mine fields - though it _had_ been particularly interesting to see Cas and Crowley interact before class. Crowley flirted with him, does so fairly often from what Dean could see, but Cas didn’t really respond and Crowley didn’t really seem to expect him to. And some ignored corner of Dean’s heart had thudded warmly at that. Warmly, and pathetically.

 

Dean’s also noticed (despite himself) that a fair number of students are gazing at Cas with dreamy, unfocused expressions as he paces around, rolling his shoulders with a brightness of shared knowledge lighting his features. Dean really, really gets where those poor kids are coming from.

 

Especially when Cas shoots him a brief, private smile between sentences.

 

“Oh, I _see_ ,” Crowley says eventually. Dean suppresses a groan. “So you’ll be giving him full marks for charisma, then?”

 

“Shut up.”

 

Crowley does, but only briefly, because he’s Crowley. “This is your ‘in’, by the way.”

 

Dean looks over at him with polite incredulity. “Come again?”

 

“This,” Crowley gestures impatiently. “Look how excited he is. Look how he _cares_. You want to get close to that one, you should read up on your Eliot and your Fitzgerald and your, I don’t know, _Faulkner,_ whatever you Yanks call art.”

 

“Now _this_ is wildly inappropriate.”

 

“Bet he gets all hot under the collar if you quote ‘Hollow Men’.”

 

Dean drags his hand over his face. He’s not sure what he did to deserve this situation, but he’s deeply, deeply sorry about it. Crowley keeps up a constant stream of complaining about American fiction and teasing Dean about Castiel for the rest of the period. When the class does finally end, Dean wants to cry with relief; he settles instead for standing up and stretching dramatically.

 

“How was it?” Castiel asks, hurrying back to greet them. His eyes flit eagerly back and forth between them, and Dean realizes the poor bastard is actually _nervous_ about his review.

 

“I know I learnt quite a bit,” Crowley says smoothly, nudging Dean, who elbows him back. “How about you, Winchester?”

 

“It was great, Cas, really.” Dean smiles at him, ignoring Crowley’s jibe. Castiel beams at them.

 

“Excellent. I was concerned because I wasn’t sure today would a very involved lesson…”

 

Crowley rolls his eyes, the fucker. “Your performance was certainly adequate, James. I for one am very glad this is not my subject to teach, but I suppose that you could have done much worse by it. Now if you boys will excuse me,” he says, glancing significantly at Dean before sweeping out of the room.

 

“He’s always so abrupt,” Cas considers. “And that’s coming from me.”

 

Dean can’t help his laugh. “But hey! He’s out of your hair. _And_ you did a bang-up job.”

 

“Thank you, Dean.” Cas blinks up at him, cautiously optimistic. “Your presence in my classroom is very welcome.”

 

“Oh, hey,” Dean stammers, feeling himself flush from cheek to neck, “it’s whatever. You know, glad to do it.”

 

“Friday night, then? Will I see you?”

 

“I - buh?” Dean replies, and hey, not his best work.

 

“The office party. Costume optional, right?” Cas is all earnestness in his frankly unfair blue eyes. “Will I see you there?”

 

He’d forgotten all about the Halloween party, because he isn’t the type to attend one. Dean swallows thickly. He also says yes, because he wants to go and Castiel wants him to go and it gives him a distinct heady rush. Dean can handle heady rushes.

 

* * *

 

Dean was unaware how safely he had been playing the game until it all fell apart.

 

“Dean Dean Deany Dean!” Gabriel crows, crowding him at the snack table. He makes a bold statement in a flirty Robin Hood outfit. Or maybe Link from Legend of Zelda. You could never be sure with Gabriel. “How about the décor, huh?”

 

On closer inspection, _this_ is one of the stupidest things Dean has ever let himself be talked into.

 

There’s a lot of glittering spiders and cauldrons and such, and someone had gone and replaced all the light bulbs with festive orange ones, making everyone look a little like a pumpkin. It’s a pretty energetic crowd for a bunch of English lit snobs, but then again the punch ain’t exactly on the up-and-up. Dean drinks more of it in one go than is wise and grits his teeth. “It’s enchanting. Your doing?”

 

“Hardly. But I’m definitely stealing some of those garlands for drag night. I didn’t think you were coming, though! You said you wouldn’t.”

 

“He was persuaded,” a rumbling voice laughs from behind him. Dean turns and catches a very undignified gasp in his throat just in time, because Cas stands in well-worn jeans and a black leather jacket, usually unkempt hair slicked back in traditional greaser style. Pumpkin lighting suits him. “Hello, Dean.”

 

“Cas,” Dean manages. “That outfit come with a switchblade?”

 

“No, I’m a notoriously violent drunk,” Cas deadpans. “Couldn’t take that risk. You’re James Bond,” he adds conversationally.

 

“I am that.” Dean tries not to preen; he knows he looks good in his fitted tux and specially coiffed hair. “Hey, look at you, though, making a pop culture reference and everything.”

 

“I’m familiar with the character,” Cas admits, “but I’ve yet to see any of the movies.”

 

“Blasphemy,” Gabriel whispers wonderingly.

 

“I’m really glad you made it, Dean,” Cas says, too honest, too sweet, and Gabriel doesn’t even try to hide his giddy expression.

 

“I’m glad, too, Cas.” Dean’s voice is a little rougher than he’d intended. “For starters, the punch has some kick.”

 

“You do know you have a really stupid pun just waiting to be formed, there,” a distinctly feminine someone says. Dean turns just in time to have Pamela Barnes pressing the long line of her body against his side, feathering a peck on his cheek. “This look is delicious on you.” She pulls away, eyes sparkling. “But I think you’re being outshined by our Professor James over here,” she purrs.

 

“Feel free to call him Castiel,” Gabriel declares brightly.

 

“Hello, Pamela,” Cas says, taking her hand and kissing the smooth curve of her knuckles chastely. She titters. “How are you this evening – or should I say, who?”

 

“Isn’t it obvious?” When Cas shakes his head with a frown, she turns expectantly to Dean.

 

“…Jessica Rabbit,” he grumps when it’s clear she won’t move on.

 

“Right in one!” she says happily, applauding flirtatiously. “What do you think, Castiel? Does it…suit me?”

 

Dean can feel himself bristling on some level, and he _likes_ Pamela. But if Cas picks up on the promise in her voice and the switch in her hips, he doesn’t let on. He tells her she looks lovely in a nice but ultimately dismissive way, and soon enough she moves on, dragging Gabriel off in search of more flirtatious pastures. And then it’s Dean and Cas and the glances and the very, very stupid way Cas fills out that white t-shirt.

 

 _Besides, Cas isn’t even into chicks_ , some voice in his head suddenly blurts out treacherously, which tricks Dean into saying, “So what were you doing at that gay bar that time?” _Wow._

 

“What were _you_?” Cas returns, looking at him in a way that suggests that Dean is pretty but perhaps a bit slow.

 

Dean flushes, damn it all. “Got dragged there. You?”

 

“Got stood up, I suppose.”

 

And for a split second he is suddenly, lividly, undeniably jealous. He tamps it down and mumbles something manful like, _hey, been there, man,_ as Castiel continues, “But I guess that worked out all right for me.”

 

Dean’s still working out his enigmatic smile and the thumping in his chest when Crowley, of all people, materializes beside Castiel.

 

“Hello, darling,” Crowley drawls at him, feathering his eyelashes a few times, Castiel responding with a distinct air of dry amusement.

 

“Hello, yourself,” he retorts smartly. “Have you been into the punch, Crowley?”

 

“It’s not the punch I’d like to get into.”

 

“Ah-ha. I’m very flattered.” Castiel sounds the opposite of flattered.

 

“Well,  can you blame me? Next your going to break my heart and tell me your seeing someone.” Crowley may be talking to Cas, but he’s looking slyly at Dean, who wants to smash his smarmy face.

 

“No, not since Chicago,” Castiel hums mysteriously. “How goes the reviews?”

 

“Just one class left, if you’ll believe it. Barring a miserable failure by her on Monday, no one is up to be canned. Not even you,” Crowley adds breezily.

 

“Thank you for your glowing recommendation, Professor. Hang on, that reminds me, I need to go congratulate Alistair on his publishing,” Cas says. “Excuse me for a moment, won’t you?” He shoots Dean a small, apologetic smile and gives a charming bow as he slips away.

 

“You’re playing a reckless game with your own heart, Winchester,” Crowley observes with no small amount of amusement, leaning in close. “How intriguing. I can’t wait to see how badly you fuck yourself over.”

 

It’s going to be _spectacularly_ bad, Dean knows, but he doesn’t need to give Crowley the satisfaction. HE slams the rest of his punch. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 

“I’ll bet. Have you thought about my advice?”

 

“What advice?” Cas sidles back into the conversation. Dean pits Crowley with his most disarming glare.

 

“I’d just been telling Dean that he should brush up on his twentieth century American writers.” Crowley looks between them and pulls a very convincingly surprised smile. “But that’s _your_ area of expertise, isn’t it?”

 

“It is,” Cas says, but he’s looking at Dean. “What exactly are you interested in?”

 

 _Oh, if only you knew._ “Well,” Dean says, watching with bewilderment as Crowley casually smirks away, “Like you were saying in class. I, uh. I didn’t even know that T.S. Eliot and Fitzgerald were contemporaries…”

 

“No?” Cas coaxes, his eyes bright and voice soft.

 

“Nope.  And, uh, I was wondering if there were similar themes, you know, or if they bounced ideas off of each other, or…” Dean trails off lamely, entirely too aware of Cas’ gaze. Heady rushes are fine, true enough. But this? This is sweetness and promises, this is danger and doubt. This is more than attraction. And Dean is probably fucked.

 

“They were great friends, actually. Very fond of each other. Fitzgerald even sent him an inscribed copy of _The Great Gatsby_.” Cas turns and looks out over the mingling crowd, pursing his lips thoughtfully. It’s only then that Dean realizes how close they’re standing, hands almost brushing where they hold their drinks. A beat of time passes before he turns back to Dean with a spark of determination in his eyes, focused, head tilted down just so. “Do you know, I have the same edition upstairs?”

 

“Do you?” Dean asks weakly.

 

“I do. Obviously not the inscribed copy. That would be priceless.” He chuckles just a little and the rhythm flutters in Dean’s chest. “But I managed to get a copy from a local antiquarian bookseller here in Seattle just a few weeks ago.”

 

“That’s…pretty awesome, actually.” _Danger, Dean Winchester! Danger!_

 

“Would you like to see it?”

 

The low smolder of the tone doesn’t shock him, exactly, but it certainly does interesting things to his body. Dean’s being seduced, he realizes, but he doesn’t know what to do about it. It’s not exactly like he can refuse Castiel; he doesn’t know how he would do that gracefully, and he doesn’t _want_ to know how. He follows Cas, somehow forgetting to form some sort of defense, slipping out of the party and up the stairs. He can feel the gentle tremor in his hands just before his grips the stairwell, uncomfortable aware of the heat of Castiel’s proximity. Before he knows it, he’s in Cas’ study, the low lighting reflecting off the leather of his chair as the aforementioned book is fetched from a high shelf.

 

Castiel’s voice drips warmth, honey slow, down his spine and into the core of him as he explains his latest find in low, dragging detail. When Cas prompts him, Dean reaches out to touch the tome, sliding fingers on the worn pages.

 

“When books reach this point,” Cas goes on in a deep murmur, close to his ear, “they know things. You can feel it, right there in the pages, in the smell. Do you see?”

 

 _‘That’s just yellowing,’_ Dean wants to say, to stop Cas from looking at him like that. _‘Old book smell is just mold,’_ he thinks desperately, as Castiel’s fingers brush against his own on the open pages.

 

“I think so,” Dean replies instead, his pulse hammering away inconsiderately in his throat. _What the fuck are we talking about?_ He has an absurd urge to laugh.

They’re close now, and close to something. Cas looks at him, and he _sees_ him, and Dean’s floored by the scrutiny, and honestly who could blame him? Dean can _feel_ Castiel in the space between them, phantom brushes tingling across his arms, his shoulders, his face. Time moves slowly, deliberately; Dean catches every rise of his shoulders and the minute sweep of dark eyelashes. Dean looks into his eyes because he’s just spectacular at terrible ideas. There’s caution there, and burgeoning hope, and something that’s almost certainly desire. He swallows hard when Cas’ gaze drops to his lips.

 

When Castiel finally leans in, it’s everything he was afraid it would be.

 

Cas swallows Dean’s gasp with infinite patience, lips moving soft and sure against his. Up close, he smells like lingering cologne, and Dean wonders briefly if he put a special effort in for him tonight. When Cas nips gently at his lower lip, his mouth falls open on a hitched breath and Dean stops wondering things altogether.

 

His hands fall to the hard planes of Castiel’s chest as the kiss deepens, fingers searching, trailing across the hard lines of collarbones. When Cas’ tongue tentatively slides against his, Dean moans, gripping the leather jacket tight as his entire body slams forward to meet him. But Cas is right there with him, pushing, pulling, yanking unremorsefully at the knot of Dean’s tie, fucking _growling_ when their hips find each other at last.

 

Cas kisses him desperate like a drowning man in search of air, reverent like the ground of a lost homeland. A hand trails up Dean’s jawline and into his hair, fingers gentling in the short strands at the back of his neck. And Dean breathlessly marvels at the balance he strikes, the casual strength and fragility at his fingertips.

  
The crushing grace of everything that Castiel is pours over Dean and he knows, he knows, he knows that Castiel deserves so much better. He deserves someone whole and loving and who understands and isn’t fractured and breaking and unable to –

 

Dean tears himself away from Castiel with such force that the professor collapses into the desk behind him. Books tumble off the shelves all over the fucking place as Dean tries and fails to avoid Castiel’s shocked stare, chest heaving, arms tangibly empty.

 

“Dean?” Cas asks, voice rough with things Dean can’t even process right now, late worry in his stricken expression. “What’s wrong?”

 

Dean swallows hard and his stomach churns and Cas is still _looking_ at him, and the seconds stretch on and on and Dean can’t even say anything at all, his mind a baseline mantra.

 

_I can’t do this._

_I can’t do love._

_Not again._

_Not like this._

_Oh, God._

 

“So… Fuck.” Cas grinds out eventually, and Dean starts, because he’s never heard Cas swear before. It’s absurdly hot, which twists his stomach in all the wrong ways. “What did I do wrong?”

 

 _‘You’re looking at me like that,’_ Dean thinks desperately. _‘You’re usurping my personal space. You’re beautiful and it makes me feel stupid.’_

 

“I’m…I can’t, Cas. I’ve been drinking, and…”

 

“And what?” Cas murmurs.

 

“And I just fucking _can’t_ , okay?” Dean pleads, begging him to understand, wanting nothing more than to ease the hurt out of Cas’ expression and knowing he’s the one who put it there.

 

“Dean, wait!” Cas calls, but Dean’s already slamming out the door. Apparently he wasn’t kidding about the drinking either, because it’s with clumsy feet that he finds his way out of the office building, dialing for a cab when he gets outside, still panting with his stomach in knots.

 

It isn’t until he’s closed the door to his own apartment that he gives in to his frustration, slamming his open palms furiously against the door, one, two, three times. He slumps, back against the doorframe, and loosens his tie as the cold seeps low into his stomach.

 

Because Dean’s greatest secret, that knowledge that he holds above all things, is quite simple. He does not deserve love. He doesn’t deserve that tender affection shit he writes about every fucking night, because he’s danced this dance, and he knows how it ends. He is flawed, and he is corrupt, and he is trapped.  He knows his greatest shame.

 

That when the angels come to him in his dreams, Dean begs. That the angels ask, _Who could ever grant you absolution? Who is left to forgive Dean Winchester?_

 

That Dean weeps himself awake.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Dreams can be deceiving, like faces are to hearts." -Fiona Apple
> 
> oh noooooooooooooooooooooo.
> 
> [...come hang out with me.](http://trustdreams.tumblr.com)


	9. And Pick the Seams Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is a national treasure, Dean does some damage control, and Cas probably had a really shitty weekend.

* * *

 

He leans against the cool glass of his window, pulling the bottle to his lips as he looks out over his perpetually raining Seattle skyline. It goes down harsh with a burn and a wince, but after the first few failed attempts at sleep, Dean had taken up whatever alcohol was on hand with a vain hope of making Friday night an empty memory.  There probably isn’t enough whiskey in the world, but Dean is determined to give it the old Winchester try.

 

A knock at the door interrupts Dean’s otherwise peaceful descent into oblivion. He decides to ignore it and continue his bleary introspection. Unfortunately the knocking persists, and after a solid minute Dean probably has to do something about it.

 

Dean leans heavily and suspiciously on the doorframe and silently congratulates himself for how clear his speech is, considering. “What are you doing here, Sam?”

 

“I missed you. Are you drunk?”

 

“Hey, you know, it’s Saturday.”

 

“It’s also noon.”

 

“It’s also fuck you.” Dean turns away and throws himself onto the sofa. “Leave me with my pain, Samantha.”

 

“I love that I’m somehow the woman in this situation.”

 

Dean squints blearily at him. “Gabriel texted you.”

 

Sam sighs. “Gabriel texted me. Like eighty times. But fret not; I’m here on a completely unrelated errand.”

 

“Which is?”

 

“You forgot your scarf at my house!” Sam says brightly, brandishing it.

 

Dean snorts elegantly.

 

“Okay, okay, you got me. I’m here for damage control.” Sam drops gracelessly onto the couch next to him. “Show me where it hurts.”

 

“I hate you so much. Like, you don’t even know.” But he lets Sam pry the bottle from his fist with minimal glaring. “I was using that.”

 

“Yeah, how long have you been using it? I’m guessing all night?”

 

“Hrm,” Dean replies noncommittally. “Work is gonna be brutal.”

 

“It can’t be all that bad, tiger.”

 

“Everyone’s gonna know. And hate me,” he garbles tipsily. “I’m a…I’m a _heel_ , is what I am. If you knew what I’d done, you wouldn’t wanna be sittin’ next to me.”

 

Sam’s face freezes entirely but for his rapidly escalating eyebrows. “Tell me I’m not covering up the Hot Gay Massacre of 2014.”

 

“Well, no one died. How much shit did Gabe talk, exactly?”

 

“Not a lot.” Sam perfunctorily checks his phone. “He said there were many flirty shenanigans, and then you two disappeared, and then at some point Cas came back to the party and sulked for twenty minutes before disappearing for sulkier climes.”

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean groans. Sam gives a knowing nod.

 

“Yup. So what happened when you slipped off with the Dreamboat?”

 

“What do you think?”

 

“...please tell me you didn’t get down in his _office_?”

 

“What? No, man, how the – no! We just…you know.”

 

After a somewhat tense pause, Sam huffs. “Jesus, Dean, throw me a base here or something.”

 

“ _First,_ moron. Oh. I dunno, what’s second base between dudes?”

 

“You know, I have no idea and I hope you never tell me that.”

 

“Gonna go with first.”

 

Sam tries and fails miserably to hide his curiosity when he meets his brother’s eyes. His eyebrows move too much for _casual_. “How was it?”

 

“I knocked him into a bookcase.”

 

“So, not best,” Sam jokes, but his face is kind when Dean gets up the nerve to look at it. “What happened, Dean?”

 

And it’s probably the soft acceptance of Sam’s voice that finally loosens the tight knot of apprehension that’s been pushing against his rib cage since his brother walked in the door. Dean releases a breath with an audible groan and slumps a little. “I think I got cockblocked by my own self-loathing.”

 

“There’s an unnecessarily vivid image.”

 

Dean tells him the story, as best as he can manage, stretched out on the couch with his drunken head and his self-deprecation. Sam, for his part, listens well and winces sympathetically where applicable, barring an intense fit of what Dean calls _giggling_ when his brother described their costumes. Surprise isn’t even on the table when Sam learns that Dean let his subconscious run away with itself.

 

“And I’ve ruined _everything,_ Sam, I fucked up _everything_ , and he’s done with me, I just know, not friends, nothing,” Dean slurs emphatically. “Not that I want the, the nothing.”

 

“No?”

 

“Nope. Just friends.”

 

“So you wouldn’t mind if Cas met someone else?” Dean avoids Sam’s squinty concern. “If he finally took Crowley up on those repeated offers?”

 

Dean’s head jerks towards his brother in alarm. “How do you know about that?”

 

“Gabriel’s kind of a gossip hound,” Sam confesses.

 

“Whore, you mean.”

 

“Hey, I’m not here to shame anyone. All I know is, you might not know what to do with them, but you’ve got _feelings_ , man. That’s tricky. And you aren’t going to get your shit straight from the bottom of another bottle of sin.” Sam meaningfully waggles the bottle of whiskey.

 

“Yeah, yeah, you’ve always got an easy answer,” Dean snaps. “But what am I supposed to do, though? Say, ‘Sorry for the sexual tension’? Or ask him to wait for me? Wait for me to _what_? Make another drunken mistake? Try to gay it up and let him down?”

 

“I think you should talk to him. Regardless what comes of it, you need peace of mind. Doesn’t matter where that conversation goes, really. Just fucking talk. Apologize, maybe come clean about your past some.”

 

“You mean Benny.” It isn’t a question.

 

“He deserves that much.”

 

“Go fuck yourself,” Dean says, without any real venom. Cas deserves that much and a lot more, which is exactly how Dean ended up drinking out his personal store of liquor since the wee hours of the morning.

 

Sam makes a pot of coffee and switches to more mundane concepts while it’s brewing. Working with an ex seems difficult, even if she weren’t the “fucking nutbag” Dean suggests she is. Apparently there’s a lot of backseat micromanagement and backstage manipulating behind the scenes at Winchester & Fiamma, where they practice as much drama as law. Sam regales him of Ruby’s dastardly ribbing as well as her supernatural ability to win hopeless cases as Dean downs cup after cup of caffeine, and before too long, Dean’s comes around to himself well enough to tend to his own, allowing Sam to take his leave and do whatever moose lawyers do.

 

“One more thing, Dean,” Sam says, stopping in the doorway with his keys in hand. The older Winchester pauses at the quiet urgency of his tone.

 

“What’s that?”

 

Dean’s caught off guard when Sam whirls around at the last second, scarf flying. He clutches semi-desperately at his older brother’s shoulders, shaking him a little.

 

“Go to him, Dean,” he whispers desperately. “ _Go to him_.”

 

“The fuck out of my house,” Dean growls, pushing Sam out into the hallway. But not for nothing, he’s smiling a little as he closes the door.

 

* * *

 

Work really _was_ kind of brutal, especially for the first five hours or so. He’d had the whole weekend to prepare himself for it, but that didn’t stop him from psyching himself out. His classes were fine, but Monday morning around the office involved a lot more slinking around shamefacedly than Dean was used to. No one actually _said_ anything, not out loud, not even _Crowley_ , but there was an inordinate amount of staring and meaningful non-staring going on.

 

He nurses his coffee and his repeatedly stung pride as manfully as he can; it gets a whole lot harder every time he has to glance away when Castiel sweeps through the doorway, as calm as ever, though perhaps a bit more rushed than Dean is used to seeing. Then again, Dean could be projecting. He’s probably projecting.

 

And besides, if Cas is really really busy, then Dean really really doesn’t need to disturb him. Sometime around lunch, he pulls out his phone.

 

**Dean: I might be a huge coward.**

**Sam: DO something about it.**

 

**Dean: Should I just…go in there???**

**Sam: Dude. Srsly?**

**  
Dean: EVERYONE KNOWS OH GOD**

**Sam: Calm down, breathe. Just nut up and march in there.  
Sam: No! Wait until everyone goes home!**

**Dean: But what if HE goes home?**

**Sam: Then you’ll know he doesn’t want to get stuck alone with you. Which is kind of an answer all by itself?**

Bowing to Sam’s greater logic, Dean spends a fitful day sitting in his corner of the office, watching in dull resignation as faculty slips him by. Despite how decidedly everyone is ignoring him, Dean feels exposed as fuck. Of course he did unbelievably embarrassing shit at a company party. Of course his office is near the door. Nothing is ever easy for Dean Winchester.

 

People file out in slow numbers, the lateness of the day finally emboldening a few of them enough to wish him a good night. Around 7:00, Dean works up the nerve to creep his head around the corner. Nearly everyone has gone, presumably for the night, but Castiel’s door is open, light from within reflecting off the doorplate. The sound of typing travels distinctly in the quiet space, and Dean’s pretty sure they’re coming from Cas’ direction.

**Dean: Dude, HE STAYED**

**Sam: …and?!**

**Dean: Should I?**

**Sam: FUCKING YES, DEAN**

It shouldn’t be hard. Of course it shouldn’t be _easy,_ but Dean still shouldn’t feel rooted to the spot, unable to move. And he isn’t. He fucking _isn’t._ Because Dean Winchester can do this. Dean Winchester is strong. Dean Winchester is smart, and he is increasingly wise, and he doesn’t shirk his responsibilities and he is definitely not afraid of the man down the hall with the sorrowful face and the blue-eyed disappointment. And somehow he’s already marched down the hallway and is sliding through the door.

 

Then Cas is in front of him, deep blue eyes narrowed with pique, shoulders stiff in their button-down. He was in the middle of reaching for something, but he’s looking at Dean now, arm frozen just shy of his bookshelf. He’s taken off his jacket, draped it carelessly on the back of his chair. What a stupid thing to notice.

 

“Hello, Dean,” Cas grits out, and Dean can’t help but think of the last few times his name fell from his lips. _Fuck._

 

“Hey, Cas,” Dean replies, timidity right where it ought to be. He licks his lips nervously and notices Cas noticing. And then notices Cas looking pissed about it. “I was…I was hoping we could…talk.”

 

Castiel looks around his office before very pointedly saying, “Not here.” Dean flushes darkly and wordlessly follows him out of the scene of the crime. They stop, not at Dean’s office like he was expecting, but in the break room, next to the coffee pot and the mini-fridge.

 

Castiel leans against the doorjamb, horrifyingly composed in contrast to the turmoil of Dean’s inner monologue. His eyes fall sharp on Dean’s fidgeting hands, so Dean busies them with an unnecessary pot of coffee.

 

“What did you want to talk about?” Cas asks dryly, and Dean is tempted to roll his eyes despite his guilt. “How I had to pick up my Norton Anthology of American Literature from the bottom of a pile of lesser publications? My grief is real.”

 

“I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean says quietly, because it’s true. Cas having to restore his office to a sense of order is not a mental image Dean’s guilty mind needs. _He was probably making a heartbreaking face and listening to Leonard Cohen. Shut_ up _, brain._

 

“I believe that,” Cas says evenly, not really looking at him. “I would say that I am as well, but I don’t think it’s true.”

 

“No, No, and you shouldn’t be. That was…all that…it’s - ”

 

“If you’re going to tell me, ‘It’s not you, it’s _me,’_ I'll have to inform you that I’m unimpressed with your originality.”

 

“No, Cas, come _on_ , hear me out. I just, that’s on me. It is. I fucked up, and I want to make it right. I want to know how.”

 

“Good for you.” The bluntness of his tone shocks Dean. “I want to know _why_.”

 

“Cas…”

 

“You’re attracted to me,” Castiel states, slowly, and Dean’s impressed with how well he manages to keep the accusation out of his voice. Dean wouldn’t have been able to. “I don’t understand the problem.”

 

There was a line here, somewhere, at some point, that Dean had never meant to cross. The problem is, Dean never really decidedly what and where that line was. And putting it off hadn’t made the backlash any easier, really. Dean sighs aloud and runs a hand through his hair. “I think we both know the problem is me.”

 

“ _You_ are not a _problem_ , Dean. _Problems_ can be _fixed_. You don’t need fixing.”

 

“How do you know?” Dean snaps, but he’s not snapping at Cas, not really, and Cas doesn’t look offended.

 

“You are a person. You don’t fix _people_.” The whole notion is viciously disparaged by Cas’ tone. “There is something you’re not telling me, and you think you self-deprecation will distract me?”

 

“Why do you need to know my secrets so bad?”

 

“Dean, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I am sort of hopelessly hung up on you.” Dean cowers a little under his glare and knows he should be concerned the guilty thrill that runs through him at the words. “And I’ve got secrets of my own. I’ve got a skeleton or eight, Dean. You just assume I can’t handle yours?” Cas looks angry enough to hit him. “That’s not fair to me.”

 

“I know. I know it’s not.” Dean hopes Cas can’t hear the desperation.

 

“Keeping me at arms-length isn’t fair, either, by the way. I have been getting very mixed signals. It’s frustrating.”

 

“Yeah, I have that effect.”

 

“Funny,” Cas says, sounding unamused. “I didn’t say _you_ were frustrating. _You’re_ charming. Your distrust of me is not.”

 

Dean makes a wounded animal noise that takes him by surprise. Cas looks a little surprised, too. “Jesus, Cas,” he rasps, “I am not worth this.”

 

“You are,” Cas insists, but he’s quieter now, more sure. “I don’t know how you ended up feeling this way about yourself, but you _are,_ Dean.”

 

Cas’ certainty is a thing to behold. His terribly unfounded belief in Dean is mind-boggling.

 

Dean wants to fight him.

 

Dean wants to lose.

 

“I am so truly fucked up,” Dean says, out loud before he can stop himself.

 

“I don’t know, Dean, maybe you are.” Cas exasperated is terribly endearing despite the context. “You haven’t exactly let me decide that for myself.”

 

Dean starts, and then stops. He grips his coffee mug tight, shifts uncomfortably, and finally meets Cas’ eyes. And whatever he sees there emboldens him enough; he releases on a sigh.

 

“His name was Benny, Cas.” Dean laughs a little; it’s a sad sound. “And I was crazy about him.”

 

* * *

 

They work up to it. Cas had been set on getting the full story, and Dean is determined to tell it to him, pride be damned. Point of fact, Dean being a proud motherfucker plays a major part in his story.

 

Cas is a good listener. Dean already knew that, obviously, but Cas is a _good_ listener. He does more than hear. He responds and understands and doesn’t presume and asks the right questions, sometimes ones Dean knows how to answer, but more often ones he's never considered.

 

Somehow they’d ended up back in Cas’ office, of all places, sprawled on the floor with mugs of tepid coffee. It’s stupid, and kind of childish, but it’s a comfort. The room is quiet and close and crammed full of things Dean skims over but doesn’t focus too closely on: an absurdly wide assortment of pens, seemingly arranged by type but otherwise very messy; ornate trinkets functioning like confused paperweights and bookends; shelves upon shelves of books. He stares blankly at a vintage crank-operated pencil sharpener when he recounts the way his father died.

 

But Cas is patient. He takes in Dean’s history with a gravity that is somehow grounding, manages to do it without an excess of demoralizing pity.

 

“And you know what the worst part of it is?” Dean asks at some point. Cas hums quietly to show that he’s listening, fingers tapping out a rhythm on his long-empty mug. “Benny never knew how much damage was done. He just wanted what he wanted, you know? And he, you know, responded to what I wanted, which was all kinds of fucked up.”

 

“That’s very perceptive of you,” Cas says with a hint of fondness. “And forgiving, as well.”

 

“He was young and selfish. What should I do, hate him for it?”

 

“I don’t think _feelings_ and _should_ go very well together.” Cas ignores the eye roll Dean sends his way. “He certainly didn’t care much about what was best for you, and that isn’t entirely excused by his age. You could have hated him a lot for it, and it would have been justified enough. Feelings are what they are. But,” and here Castiel pauses for measured emphasis, “I am deeply impressed that you’ve come to such a fair conclusion on your own. You have a remarkable talent for empathy, Dean Winchester.”

 

“Aw, you’ll make me blush,” Dean says sarcastically, hoping Cas doesn’t notice that it’s true.

 

“The real question is why you are so unable to turn that forgiveness in on yourself.”

 

“I am a proud motherfucker.” Dean licks his lips nervously, a habit he’s never been able to shake. “But, look. Here I am. Trying to work on that. Gotta give me props for that.”

 

“Indeed,” Cas says dryly. “Mad props.”

 

And for the first time in several days, Dean Winchester laughs out loud. And he only laughs harder when Castiel indignantly sputters his chagrin. 

 

“This conversation is not over, by the way,” Cas mutters eventually, though he does seem more content in their respective boundaries.

 

“Yeah,” Dean says, a little of his glee leaving him. “I feel like I’ve kind of got a journey ahead of me right now, you know?”

 

“I agree. And I’d love to be a - ”

 

The sudden silence is surprising; Dean looks over his shoulder and sees something he isn’t at all used to – Cas, looking – shy? Awkward? Overwhelmed? He blinks as Cas reddens and rushes to fill the silence.

 

“I’m so, so sorry. Dean, that was unbelievably presumptuous, you just got done telling me all these reasons you’re uncomfortable with - with intimacy and why you’re not at all sure about, about your _situation_ and being _involved_ and I just steamrollered right in and, and oh God, I’m _sorry_.”

 

“Whoa, Cas. Slow down, buddy.” Dean plasters his most winning smile on and spreads his arms wide. “Hey, I wouldn’t have told you all that if I didn’t want you to know.” Dean isn’t entirely sure what he even means by that, but he hopes it makes sense to Cas.

 

“I just…I do want to help, Dean, in whatever capacity you’ll have me. Or, I mean, whatever you need.” Cas’ body shuffles backward, moving against the wall into a space all his own. The little headshake and deep breath he allows himself seem to pull him back together, because he’s a lot more composed when he says, “I just don’t… want you to think I’m taking advantage of you?”

 

“What? Cas, no _,_ ” Dean says, surprised. “Didn’t even cross my mind.”

 

Time passes, and Dean wonders if Cas might not say anything at all. “Is it alright, then?” Castiel asks quietly, finally, and Dean wants to groan against the wealth of emotion in his voice. “That I have a little crush on you? I promise not to,” his voice hitches a little, but Castiel soldiers on, low and determined, “not to pressure you or make you uncomfortable.” He meets Dean’s eyes steadily. Something in his chest tightens and he wants more than anything to feel differently. “Your friendship?”

 

Dean grins at him crookedly. “I’ll be your hang-up if you’ll be mine.”

 

Cas laughs; thickly, but he laughs all the same, dusting off his pants as he clambers up off the floor. “Alright, Dean.”

 

Cas offers a hand down and helps Dean to his feet, and they enjoy some companionable silence as they gather their belongings around before heading out of the building together, sharing small talk that is probably not so small as it had been once. When they begin to near the parking lot, Dean’s stomach gives a pitiful pitch. Getting some resolution with Cas – hell, just being _around_ the guy – put Dean in a good mood. He doesn’t want it to be over.

 

“I hope tomorrow is less awkward than today,” Cas is saying, and Dean shakes off his disappointment and remembers that they’re talking about work. “Perhaps if we make a public demonstration of good faith.”

 

Dean scoffs. “It was awkward for you?” he teases. “I was a fucking pariah. You got to hide in your back corner, at least.”

 

“It was awkward enough. And I had to pretend all day that I wasn’t thinking about you. Exhausting. Of course, I’m still going to have to think about something that isn’t kissing you.” His gaze slides, languid, over to Dean. “Scuba diving, for example.”

 

Dean’s huff of laughter is incredulous and while he appreciates that Cas is trying to make light of their situation, it has a very different effect. Sort of the opposite. He stills Cas with a hand on his arm as he tries to move away. “Wait, Cas.”

 

“I’m sorry again, Dean,” Cas demurs. “Crossing lines I know are there.”

 

“I…wouldn’t you…I’d like that,” Dean stutters, entirely too loudly to be a man on the cusp of thirty years old.

 

Cas’ face is carefully blank for a long moment, too long, and at some point Dean is pretty sure he’s going to shrivel up and _die right there,_ but before that happens there’s a telling brightness in Cas’ eyes as his mouth opens around a breathless, “ _Oh_.”

 

“But, but _just_. You know?” Dean stammers quickly and totally incoherently. “Not anything. _Just_.”

 

“Dean,” Cas interrupts. “I think I get it.” His voice is soft, wondering, as he lifts a hand to Dean’s shoulder, shifting him until they’re standing on even ground, face to face. He steps cautiously into Dean’s space and lifts his hand to Dean’s jawline, eyes bright and disbelieving.

 

Cas leans in just so, pressing warm lips chastely to the corner of Dean’s mouth. Dean’s entire body _thrums_ , somehow; he feels awake and hyperaware and completely bowled over by a tenderness he’s wholly unfamiliar with. Cas touches another soft kiss, this one brief on Dean’s lower lip; and again, warmer, just a little deeper, head tilted to align their mouths more fully.

 

This is nothing like Friday night; outside of the hand gripped warmly to his shoulder and the lips slowly ghosting over his own, there’s no contact between them. Instead it’s the space between that intoxicates Dean, wraps around him, makes his head spin and his throat feel tight. These kisses are feather-soft and coaxing, insistent in their gentleness. He is actually _tingling_ ; his spine is tingling and his skin is tingling and it’s so fucking absurd that it makes him light-headed.

 

When Cas pulls back, Dean’s body follows him instinctively, drawn in and wound tight around something deep in him. But his progress is halted by a finger pressed gently to his lips; his eyes flutter open to Cas’ bemused expression.

 

“Just,” Cas whispers, and if Dean didn’t know any better, he’d think Castiel was being a little shit. He backs away from Dean, smiling gently. “Good night, Dean Winchester,” he says, making his way around the Impala, opening the door to his sedan and putting one foot inside. “That is a _beautiful_ car.”

 

“I know it is!” Dean hollers when he finally pulls himself together. Cas laughs as he closes his door.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT’S OKAY IF YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND THE BALANCE THEY JUST STRUCK BECAUSE NEITHER DO I.
> 
> I wrote this story to relieve my stress. I wrote this to have _fun_. :[


End file.
